


Loving in Truth

by ohthedrarry



Series: LOVING IN TRUTH [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cravings, DMLE | Department of Magical Law Enforcement (Harry Potter), Denial, Desire, Drinking to Cope, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Poetry, Love, Lust, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Poetic, Poetry, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Redemption, Romance, Romantic Draco Malfoy, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohthedrarry/pseuds/ohthedrarry
Summary: After finishing his Ministry-ordered probation, Draco had to decide on a "new life path", whatever that meant. He wasn't sure the judge knew what that meant. What it sounded like was a farce. How was he supposed to decide on a new future when he still hadn't come to terms with the past? Enter Hermione Granger in all her Ministry glory. As an employee of the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it became her job to ensure that Draco did what he was supposed to do: find a new career path, and disavow everything that his family had stood for. As he tried to piece himself back together, and put distance between himself and his family values, he found himself wanting to be closer to Granger, who wanted nothing to do with him. [hiatus]
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: LOVING IN TRUTH [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824877
Comments: 45
Kudos: 105





	1. SONNET 1: LOVING IN TRUTH, AND FAIN IN VERSE MY LOVE TO SHOW

**Author's Note:**

> based on the sonnet sequence "astrophil and stella" by sir philip sidney, circa 1590s-ish. the sonnets, and this story, are an exploration of desire and denial; a discovery of the difference between lust and love; the story of a poet craving an intangible muse; each chapter takes the name of its respective sonnet and i'm super excited to share the beauty that is this sonnet sequence with you guys!!

SONNET 1

_Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,  
_ _That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—  
_ _Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,  
_ _Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—  
_ _I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;  
_ _Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,  
_ _Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow  
_ _Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.  
_ _But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;  
_ _Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;  
_ _And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.  
_ _Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,  
_ _Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,  
_ _"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."_

* * *

When Draco woke that morning, he felt as if he’d been hit by a train. His brain bounced around his skull with even the slightest of movements, and he couldn’t help but think that maybe his body was trying to tell him to relax and lay off the whiskey. And the gambling. Really, his body was trying to tell him to simply jump off a cliff, but Draco was too proud for that sort of thing. Why give others the satisfaction of his death when he could spend the rest of his days tormenting them with his existence?

The sky was a shade of grey very similar to his hollow eyes, and the sunshine tried in vain to make its way to earth. A few birds sung to each other in the lemon tree right outside of his bedroom window, and he waved his wand half-heartedly in its direction, causing it to swing shut. How dare the birds outside dance and sing while he could barely breathe.

The new Malfoy manor was not as grand as the original, but his mother had taken to making it her own. Without the influence of her dark and brooding husband, Narcissa had transformed an old Black property into something straight out of a Victorian novel. Rose gardens and orchards made up a majority of the property, with paths and fountains big enough for even Draco to lose himself for a while. He even had his own wing of the house, with his own kitchen and living spaces. He’d been against this at first, believing that he had to take care of his mom, but it was clear from the start that she had no interest in being babied, or in continuing to baby her son. He was there because he was her child, and only because he was her one and only son. If there had been more children—perhaps even a daughter—he would be on the streets, or worse.

He supposed that his mom was out by then, done with her breakfast and visiting her friends. Perhaps she was with Pansy’s mom right that very moment, on the Parkinson property sipping tea from a fancy cup while house elves rushed about to answer their every beck-and-call. Sometimes his mother made him sick, but he wasn’t sure why.

The en-suite bathroom attached to his bedroom was all white and black marble and cold metal, fitting for a brooding gentleman such as himself. While the rest of the house was green and yellow florals and rich velvet fabrics, his few rooms were mostly cold and indifferent. Narcissa had likened him to a teenager trying to act angry and defiant to deflect their inability to cope with change, and he’d thrown the champagne flute across the dining room table. It was two weeks before they saw each other for dinner again.

The toilet bowl was cold to the touch as Draco gripped its sides, letting his stomach empty all of the whiskey and tarts that he’d consumed the night before. The Greengrass family sure knew how to party, and Draco wound up feeling six feet under every single time. He was sure that was why his father had been so close with Daphne and Astoria’s parents. His father had passed on the family propensity for drinking at night to escape one’s actions in the day.

It took him nearly an hour to get up off the bathroom floor, and another twenty minutes to put on pants. He had his final probationary hearing to decide if his probation would be extended, or if he was finally free to do as he pleased. He hoped to high hell that he’d be able to come back home a free man with enough money to leave this entire shitty world behind and go somewhere else—anywhere else. He’d take the bottom of the Black Lake over another court room fiasco any day.

Draco dressed in his finest black suite, taking the time to make sure that his tie was perfectly centered. His hair had started to grow a bit too long for his liking, and it fell across his face as if he was some sort of punk teenager. Maybe his mom was right—he was going through a phase.

Stop it you dunce, he frowned at himself in the mirror. You just need a haircut.

He left his bedroom with a deep sigh, heading toward the central fireplace so that he could floo to the Ministry. He checked the clock on the stone wall as he dashed floo powder onto the ground. He’d be five minutes early—not bad considering the kind of morning he’d had.

The Ministry was bustling as per usual, with witches and wizards running around with stacks of papers and disgruntled looks on their faces. No one batted an eye at him anymore as he made his way to the court room, keeping his expression blank. He learned quickly that as long as he kept his head down and minded his business, people would pretend as if there wasn’t an ex-Death Eater in their presence. Perhaps it was easier that way for them. If they pretended he wasn’t there, they didn’t have to remember the things that he did.

The court room was mostly empty, just the judge and a few administrative assistance keeping records and finishing up paperwork from the previous case. A messy collection of brown curls caught Draco’s attention as he made his way to the center of the room. Sitting at a desk to the left of the judge was Hermione Granger, her lips pursed as she furiously wrote things down. Her cheeks were slightly red, and he wondered briefly what had gotten her so worked up. He quickly shut the thoughts down, remembering that she’d be worked up the moment that she laid eyes on him. And he was getting worked up too.

Save for the one time he ran into Potter after his second probationary check-in, he hadn’t run into anyone from Hogwarts other than his close friends. He preferred it that way. It was easier to pretend that the war hadn’t happened when he was surrounded by people that had also been there, and had fought alongside him. Not fought, per se, but who had been involved. From them came no judgement, only acceptance and a little bit of idolatry, if Draco was being completely honest. His family name still held power in pure-blood societal circles, as did the Malfoy wallet.

But, Granger was a different game than Potter. For one, he had lied to save Potter’s life. He watched Granger be tortured by Bellatrix, and while he hadn’t gotten pleasure from those terribly long hours, he’d felt something much worse: guilt. And guilt didn’t suite Draco very well. It made him feel irritable—how dare people make him feel as if his actions had been wrong. He’d done what he had to do to save his family—to survive. If that made him a criminal, so be it. No one was going to make him feel guilty, especially not someone like Granger. Someone so beneath him he shouldn’t have even had to force himself to look away from her.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said the judge, a suspiciously warm smile on his face. “Glad to see you back. You look as if you’ve put on a few pounds—I’m happy for you. The last time I saw you, you looked so—”

“Lost?” Draco crossed his arms over his chest, becoming defensive. He felt as if he was being patronized, and it disgusted him. He was being played with. This judge could easily rip the rest of Draco’s life away at any second, and he was using the time to make comments about Draco’s weight. It was true, he had put on a few pounds. He and Theodore Nott had taken to hitting the pubs on the weekends, filling themselves with bread and beer until they could barely apparate home. “Broken? Tell me, with all due respect, do you intend to actually try and rehabilitate me or whatever it is you’re trying to do? Or do you simply keep bringing me back here to taunt me?”

“You have your father’s gift for speech, I like that,” the judge—Draco couldn’t even remember his name, he was that bothersome—shifted slightly in his seat. “I hope you can do more than him some day.”

“No one will ever do more than my father,” Draco narrowed his eyes. The judge’s smile only grew wider.

“I hope you can be better than him, then,” he reached for a pair of reading glasses, taking his time to place them on the bridge of his nose. The judge licked his finger before paging through documents, looking for one in particular. “While we wait for your probationary auror, tell me something. How has life been after the war? How is your mother enjoying her newfound freedom? I heard she built some lovely—”

The door to the courtroom swung open as Draco’s probationary auror, Connor Cleveland, practically threw himself over the threshold. He seemed as confused and disoriented as he did every time they had these meetings, and Draco was surprised he’d even gotten this far in the program. The first time he’d met Cleveland he thought for sure he’d be sent straight to Azkaban for hexing him all the way to Poland. Cleveland was constantly stumbling over his own words and re-starting sentences as if every time he got in front of the judge it was his first. Draco seriously started wondering if he’d been dropped on his head from a balcony as a small child.

“Sorry for my tardiness everyone, I got lost in the floo network.”

Draco could feel his eyes roll in his head as he took a strained breath. These meetings, and his probationary auror, were testing his ability to be polite. He was also trying very hard to ignore the feeling of Granger’s eyes attempting to stare into his soul. She’d listened to his exchange with the judge with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, the quill in her hand unmoving. Whatever had been so important before had been forgotten, and all attention was on Draco. He hated it.

“Can we just get this over with?”

“Draco,” Cleveland let out an awkward laugh, placing his hand on Draco’s shoulder as he stood beside him. Draco shrugged him off, crossing his arms over his chest.

 _Don’t look at her_ , he thought to himself. _Don’t look at her._

Despite his best efforts not to look in her direction, she took up all of his peripheral vision. Her expression slowly turned from one of shock to mild disgust, and she straightened up in her seat. That was the Granger he knew—the one that couldn’t stand the sight of him.

She was older now, her cheekbones more defined. Even from a short distance away he could see freckles on her cheekbones, small decorative dots over the blush that was beginning to fade. She’d pulled some of her hair back in an attempt at one of those half-up, half-down things that girls do when they’re too lazy to commit to a ponytail. Her work robes were professional and modest, but he could see something underneath that made his left leg start to bounce. He cleared his throat and forced a smile onto his face.

“Your honor, I apologize on behalf of the bumbling idiot beside me,” Draco said cooly. He heard Granger scoff and almost snarl at him. The sound made him want to keep going. “I could have represented myself, you know. After all, he’s hardly seen me throughout this process—“

“Mr. Malfoy, shut it,” Cleveland said, narrowing his eyes. Draco shot him a menacing look before turning his gaze to the judge. He wanted to look at Hermione, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop staring. Why was that? Was it because he hadn’t seen her in a long time, and she’d changed enough that he needed new information? How else could he best remind her of her place beneath him, beneath the rest of wizarding society?

“Mr. Cleveland,” the judge stared at the two of them over his glasses. “How has Mr. Malfoy been progressing?”

“I’m right here,” Draco piped up again. He couldn’t help himself. They were talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. “And I’ve been doing well, thanks. Gained a bit of weight as you mentioned—”

“Mr. Malfoy has been doing well,” Cleveland cut him off. “I see no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed off probation.”

  
“Are you saying this because it’s true, or because he’s a handful?” The judge raised an eyebrow. Cleveland stole a glance at Draco, their eyes meeting for a few tense moments. Draco was daring him to say no, daring him to try and take more of Draco’s precious time away from him.

“I think that he’s ready to re-integrate into society, perhaps find a career and a purposeful role,” Cleveland forced out. “However, I do not think that I am well-suited for the task of aiding him in this process.”

The sound of Granger’s laugh silenced the entire court room. Draco felt his blood begin to boil. She was laughing at him—at his situation. He’d gone from a god to sitting before a judge letting an imbecile speak for him in a court of magic law. And Granger had helped put him there.

“Miss Granger?” The judge turned to face her. “You seem to think differently, even though this is the first time Mr. Malfoy has been in your presence. Care to explain your reaction to the court room?”

Rather than shrink away from the sudden attention, Granger sat up straighter in her chair and lifted her chin. She was staring daggers at Draco, who was looking everywhere else.

“I think he’s a lying, cheating ferret,” she spat out. “And I think he’s paid Mr. Cleveland a bribe to get him off probation early. If you ask me, he shouldn’t even be sitting here in front of us. He should be rotting in Azkaban next to his father and every other Death Eater that fought against—”

“That’s enough,” the judge softly silenced her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She took a deep breath and looked away finally, her eyes sparkling with what Draco thought were tears. Was she angry, or sad? Draco couldn’t tell. He assumed perhaps both. If only he could feel more than one emotion—numb—at once. He wondered what that kind of life was like. If it was painful, or easy—did feelings complicate things, or make them easier?

Draco wasn’t sure of the answer. He wasn’t quite sure of anything anymore. Not since he’d gotten probation instead of a life sentence in Azkaban like most of the others.

“Draco Malfoy, I have no choice but to believe Mr. Cleveland that you have successfully and faithfully carried out your probation,” the judge took off his glasses. “However, I am wary of your return to the wizarding community. After all, times are changing, and not in the way people such as your family would approve of. I am worried that, should you be released, you may quickly fall back into old circles, and that is not something that I can have on my conscience as a keeper of the law and a servant of justice. Can you give me one good reason why I should let you off?”

Draco considered the judge seriously, eyeing him up and trying to tease out any ill-will or bad intention on the judge’s part. But all Draco could find was a sincere man asking an honest question, and wanting a truthful answer in return. However, Draco didn’t know what the future held. He had become impulsive, and who was he to say what he would or wouldn’t do in the future? His interests and desires came and went too quickly for him to even keep track of them. The only constant love in his life had been flying, and that’s because flying was the only thing that kept him from losing it. When he was in the air, he was truly free. It was only on the ground that Draco was stuck pleasing others.

“Your honor, I’ve spent the entirety of my life pleasing other people,” Draco took a deep breath. “I’ve spent my life sacrificing myself, my friends, and my family for causes and ideologies that I didn’t invent myself. Everything that I have done, I have done to please others. I think it’s only fair that I am given time and opportunity to please myself. However, I also say that I do not know how I could honestly be helpful to society. My dream is to return to my manor and live out my days in solitude, maybe allow my mother to marry me off to someone and pop out a few spoiled brats. Because that’s what my family has done, and what everyone else is going to do. I never really planned on having one, and I never truly planned on becoming part of whatever society you want me to be absorbed by. I find it repulsive and terribly superficial. And if that’s a bad answer, then I guess whatever happens, happens.”

Draco didn’t want to see what kind of look was on Hermione’s face. He didn’t care if she believed him or not—it was the truth. He wanted to be left alone for once in his life. He wanted peace. And he felt as if he was never going to get it.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Malfoy, that wasn’t a good or bad answer,” the judge pursed his lips. “It’s a deflective answer. You want me to let you slink back to your house with your mother and live alone in secrecy, and even your mother doesn’t do that. Narcissa makes an effort to be visible to the wizarding community, and has even attempted to change her appearances since the war. If it’s a ploy, so be it—it’s a good one. She’s at least playing along. I’m worried that you don’t see things the same way that your mother days.”

“I see a lot of things differently than my parents do,” Draco cocked his jaw. “Isn’t that why I’m sitting here in the first place? The Ministry doesn’t know what to do with me.”

“You should be in jail,” Granger interrupted again. The judge pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to steady himself. Draco had to fight to keep a smirk off his face. Granger hadn’t changed after all.

“Is that your official opinion?” The judge asked her. “That he should be in jail?”

“Yes.”

The word hung in the room like a curse suspended in mid-air. For the first time since he’d stepped into the room, Draco felt at a disadvantage. His first instinct was to be angry, but being angry took energy that he didn’t have in him.

“Well, then, you’ll be in charge of his rehabilitation process,” the judge let a giant smile pull up the edges of his thin lips. Draco and Hermione both let out dissatisfied noises, Hermione’s of pure panic and Draco’s of pure disgust.

“Just send me to Azkaban,” he put up both of his hands, waiting for the handcuffs. “I’d rather die there than be babysat by a—”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” she spat. “As if I’d actually spend my time fussing over your wellbeing.”

“You will, Miss Granger,” said the judge. “Because I said so. And, as the judge, my word is law. Isn’t that fun? Anyway, both of you will be receiving information regarding next steps. Mr. Malfoy, I am going to demand that you spend the next six months figuring out what you want to do with your life, because come the new year I’m going to require you to have your new life path figured out. I want a career, goals, ambitions—I’ll make a real man out of you yet.”

And with that, the judge stood and walked from the room, leaving Draco and Granger staring daggers at one another. Draco didn’t know how Hermione felt, but he was sure he was going to be sick again.

Draco quickly composed himself, adopting his high shouldered, cocky way of moving that he knew would piss Granger off. He feigned confidence as he sauntered up to her desk, placing both of his hands on the wooden surface and leaning forward.

“Excited to be my babysitter, Granger?” he asked. She rolled her eyes and began packing up her things.

“Not as excited as you are to be a twat,” she snapped back, only daring to look up at him for one moment. Draco suddenly realized how long her eyelashes were, and the different shades of brown that made up her fiery eyes. She was full of energy and emotion, while he was filled with lead—their conflicting personalities were sure going to make things interesting. “So, fuck off.”

“I’d rather just fuck but, you know,” Draco shrugged, pushing himself away from the desk. “No one in this vicinity is worth my time or trouble.”

“You’re not worth anyone’s trouble, Malfoy,” Granger threw her bag over her shoulder. “Get hexed.”

She left the room without a second glance. Draco felt both giddy and agitated. He was annoyed that she thought she could speak to him that way, but electrified by the fact that she was still willing to engage in aggressive banter with him. He’d thought the war had knocked the fire out of her, but it had only given it more oxygen.

Cleveland came up to him then, putting his hand on his shoulder. Draco didn’t shrug him off this time.

“You’ll be getting more information in the mail, and a summons for another meeting with the judge to set expectations for further action. It’s been a real shitty time working with you, and I hope I never see you again."

  
“Fuck off, Cleveland,” Draco turned his back and walked to the door. “You and I both know you’re under qualified and overpaid. Maybe my true calling is getting you fired. Wouldn’t that be something?”

With those final words, Draco made his way to the floo network and let himself be zipped back to the safety of his home. His mother wouldn’t be home for a few more hours, and the bar was calling his name. He wondered what Theodore was up to, or if Pansy was free. Anything to get his mind off what he was feeling: confused, pissed off, and excited.

He sent an owl to Theodore inviting him out for the evening before making his way to the bar in the sitting room. He poured himself a glass of fire whiskey, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass. Hermione know-it-all Granger was his government-issued babysitter. As if his life couldn't get any worse. He chuckled to himself, taking a deep sip. He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind—wild hair and complex brown eyes took up most of his thoughts. He'd never realized how delicate Granger actually looked. In his memory she was tough and edgy; the harsh outer image she portrayed kept those weak enough to believe it at a distance, and only allowed for strong individuals to get close to her. 

Draco wondered what would come of their forced proximity to each other. He no longer had the energy to call her names and attempt to fight with her. He'd lost the war, and had been lucky enough to be granted freedom. Would he ever express regret or apologize for his actions to her? Of course not. What kind of man would he be if he did so? He'd look stupid, and weak, and those were two adjectives which did not describe Malfoy men. 

He chuckled softly to himself, sitting down on the large leather sectional. The fireplace was quiet, as there was no need for fire in the middle of May. The air outside was warm, peaceful spring giving way to rambunctious summer as it always did. Granger reminded Draco of summer—of days spent play fighting outside as a child, loud laughter and screams coming from every direction. She was hot like the beach, and unforgiving like the ocean. She seemed to generate warmth but Draco knew that she was capable of more. She could be cold, and aggressive—he used to call it bossy, but it was more than that. It was a need to control others, to be in charge. She would argue it was for others' safety, but Draco suspected it was more for her own sanity than anything else. 

And he sure as hellfire wasn't going to let her control him. No, she was going to see what he was truly capable of. And she was going to leave him alone. Because that's what he wanted—he wanted peace and quiet, and Granger didn't promise him either of those things.

A small voice at the back of his mind chided him. _You think you want peace, but what you want is acceptance. And you know she won't accept you. And that's why you're so obsessed. That's why you're excited. You're craving denial; you're craving detachment_. 

_No_ , Draco thought to himself. He wanted to know when he was going to see her next. He was curious about what she would say, how she would act. Would she be angry and bitter, or would she actually try to help him? Would she pity him? He didn't know if it was beneath her or not to pity him. 

Could he make her like him? Did he want her to like him? Why did he even care?

Theodore Nott appeared in the fireplace, shaking out his lanky body as he stepped into the sitting room. Draco forced a smile onto his face and stood, trying to push any thoughts of Granger from his mind. He didn't have to worry about her until his next meeting, and that wasn't even scheduled yet. Why waste time fretting about silly Ministry orders and know-it-alls when you could get plastered with your best friend?


	2. SONNET 2: NOT AT FIRST SIGHT, NOR WITH A DRIBBED SHOT

SONNET 2

_Not at first sight, nor with a dribbèd shot,  
_ _Love gave the wound which while I breathe will bleed:  
_ _But known worth did in mine of time proceed,  
_ _Till by degrees it had full conquest got.  
_ _I saw, and liked; I liked, but lovèd not;  
_ _I loved, but straight did not what love decreed:  
_ _At length to love’s decrees I, forced, agreed,  
_ _Yet with repining at so partial lot.  
_ _Now even that footstep of lost liberty  
_ _Is gone, and now like slave-born Muscovite  
_ _I call it praise to suffer tyranny;  
_ _And now employ the remnant of my wit  
_ _To make myself believe that all is well,  
_ _While with a feeling skill I paint my hell._

* * *

Narcissa rejoiced at the idea of her son returning to wizarding society unscathed. She’d been let off with little more than a slap on the wrist, claiming she did it for her family’s wellbeing. Which, if Draco was being honest, wasn’t far from the truth. But, Draco wasn’t always honest, and therefore sought out the lies that others told. He knew his mother loved him, but she loved her own life more.

“And how will this all be determined?” she asked in the tea room, putting a green and white china cup to her lips. “Are they having you finish out your last year at Hogwarts?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Draco fidgeted with a lose piece of fabric on his shirt sleeve. He hated that she insisted on them having a bit of “quiet time” with each other every week. It felt beneath him. “That would take too much time. They want to be done with me so they can put all of their attention and effort into something more worth the Ministry’s budget.”

His mother nodded as she set the cup down again. She was handling the entire situation—the end of the war, the imprisonment of his father—far too well. It was as if she’d been waiting for it.

“Have you received any more information about the process?” she reached for a raspberry tart on the service tray and surveyed it. She set it down on her plate without taking a bite. “I find it hard to believe the Ministry sent you back home with nothing.”

“I was told I’d be receiving more information in a few days,” Draco swatted at the air, brushing off the words of that idiotic judge. “And that was a few days ago. Honestly, the Ministry moves slower than the board at Hogwarts. What’s the point of having a governing body that takes ages to make decisions?”

“There’s rules and hoops to jump through,” Narcissa smiled, picking up the tart again. She licked some of the fruit jelly before popping the entire thing into her mouth. “It wouldn’t be a proper government if everything didn’t take eight to ten weeks to even be brought up for conversation.”

Draco sighed and leaned back in his seat across from her. His tea was untouched, as it usually was. He thought the idea of the two of them sitting together and sipping tea felt… forced. If all she wanted was time with her son, she should have thought about that before she got him involved in a war.

“I do have a _babysitter_ ,” Draco chuckled, letting his head slump to the left. He knew he looked the furthest thing from proper gentleman, but he couldn’t help it. He felt like an insolent teenager.

“A babysitter?” Narcissa cocked an eyebrow at him. He rolled his eyes, leaning to rest his head on the soft tablecloth. He flicked the side of his tea cup, centimeters from his face.

“That Granger girl,” he avoided his mother’s eyes. “She’s been charged with making sure that I spend the next six months actively trying to sort my life out. I think it’s—”

“Wonderful?” Narcissa offered. The smile that danced on her lips caused Draco to feel as if he was being mocked. By his own mother. “I think it’d be good for you, dear.”

“What? To have some silly little—”

“She is a woman,” Narcissa’s voice took on a tone that Draco had only heard one other time. Her soft, candy-like voice sounded definite, as if it knew the words she spoke to be true. There were no other possible truths. The words she spoke were becoming law. _He’s just a boy_. “She is a powerful witch, and worth more than you are with this attitude. I did not put up with your father and our families for nearly half a century for you to act like this. The war is over. You best get over it too.”

With that, she stood from the table and practically vanished from the room. Before he realized what he was doing, Draco was slamming both fists down on the table. Tea and tarts flew from the force of it, fine china shattering on the dark wooden floors. With a pop! a house elf appeared and began to clean the mess. Every few moments or so, her big eyes would dart up to Draco. He could tell she wanted to speak up but was afraid to do so.

“You can speak to me,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m not my father.”

“Oh- I’m- I’m sorry s-sir,” the elf stuttered, nearly dropping all of the pieces she’d managed to sweep up. “May did-didn’t mean to o-offend you, sir.”

Draco sighed heavily, burying his face in his arms. He upset his mother, he upset house-elves… what was next? And why did he even feel _guilty_? He was feeling that feeling a lot during the last few weeks.

“I’m sorry I knocked everything over,” he said as he got up. He knew better than to try and help a house-elf clean up. He knew that May would be distraught for days. “I’ll be in the gardens if mother needs me.”

He left the tea room behind, making his way down the empty halls as fast as he could.

_“Is that your official opinion? That he should be in jail?”_

_“Yes.”_

Draco couldn’t let go of the look on her face. She hadn’t looked away from him as she said it, the three letters flying out of her mouth like darts. Hermione Granger had always looked at him with a certain amount of disgust, but not with that kind of conviction. There was no doubt in her mind that he was evil, that he was a criminal. And he hated that he cared.

He made his way to the glass doors that lead into a big conservatory attached to the back of the house. The fountain was soothing as he walked past orchids hanging from the ceilings and waterlilies dancing in the fountains. A few patio tables lined the walkway, and he knew that when the sun dipped below the horizon, hundreds of small, twinkling lights would fill up the space. It was modeled after the one that he had loved as a child, the one that was destroyed along with the original Manor. He loved the way the room had looked in his childhood, and during the war it became his sanctuary. It was one of the few rooms that Voldemort had never stepped foot in.

It was early afternoon, and the plants were dancing in the delicate June breeze. Peonies and tulips swayed in the sunshine, their petals every color imaginable. Draco’s personal favorite were white with light pink middles. The water lilies were massive, a few of them more than six meters in diameter. He’d never bothered to ask if they were natural or charmed, and for a moment he felt _that feeling_ again. He’d watched his mother spend hours tending to her gardens and had never bothered to learn about the plants once.

Draco found it difficult to be guilty when he was surrounded by so much life. He raised his right hand to the glass wall and waited as it began to fade away. He stepped into the gardens and took an immediate left toward the apple grove. Twelve proud apple trees reached for the sky, their bright green fruit contrasting wonderfully with the dark green leaves. He plucked an apple from one of the trees as he passed, collapsing at the base of the tree in the center.

His limbs felt heavy, as if he hadn’t slept in months. He held the apple in his hand, turning it over as he examined it. His mother had placed charms all over the gardens, ensuring that every flower and fruit that grew from the soil was perfection. He tossed it up and then caught it, feeling how evenly distributed the weight was. He knew that when he bit into it, the fruit would be crisp and tart. Just the way he liked it.

He took a bite, mulling the other day over in his head. Again.

_“You’re not worth anyone’s trouble.”_

Draco didn’t know why he’d said what he said to Granger. He didn’t even really know why he’d said what he said to the judge. He knew his monologue had sounded rehearsed and half-hearted. He knew how others viewed him: he was a traitor, and a murderer. Even though he’d never actually killed anyone. And that, really, was the source of Draco’s misery.

Some days, he wished he’d actually killed someone. He wished he hadn’t lowered his wand at Dumbledore. He wished he hadn’t stood by on the steps of Hogwarts like a scared child when all he would have had to do was stick out his wand and say those two words. He could have killed Greyback, or any number of the others. He could have killed Voldemort himself.

No. No he couldn’t have. He tossed the apple up again, watching as it spun in the air. He counted the number of turns it made. _One_. _Two_. _Three_. _Fou_ —

A grey owl flew overhead, dropping a sealed envelope into his lap. It flew away without a look back, its wings propelling it upward so fast that it seemed to disappear into the sun. The envelope bore the symbol of the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The apple fell from the sky, hitting his ankle. Draco watched as it rolled away, wishing he could roll away with it.

_Mr. Draco Malfoy—_

_You are hereby summoned to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a preliminary meeting regarding your lenient probationary period. During this time, you will be aided by one Hermione Granger as you prepare to re-integrate into Wizarding Society._

_The meeting will begin at 10am on Thursday, June 10th, 1999 and will last approximately one hour and twenty minutes. Your wand will be taken and inspected upon arrival, and returned to you at the end of the meeting._

_Please remember that failure to arrive to this meeting will lead to your immediate arrest and conviction for failure to comply with the Ministry, and failure to complete your probationary process. The penalty for this is ten years in Azkaban with no eligibility for early release._

_It is imperative that you take this seriously._

_Signed,_

_High Judge Barron_

So _that_ was the judge’s name.

Draco leaned back against the apple tree, letting the wind do what it pleased with his hair. It was longer now, and got in the way more often than it stayed in place. Narcissa wished that he’d cut it. She said that it made him look as if he was up to no good. What did she know?

What did Draco know?

_During this time, you will be aided by one Hermione Granger._

Hermione Granger. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He went from being one of the most wanted wizards in wizarding Britain, to being under the direct care of the Golden Girl. He hoped that she had managed to find her way out of the situation. She’d seemed adamant about not being left in charge of him. She also seemed older, more confident in herself. He wondered if the war, or the year after, had done that to her.

Draco would be lying if he were to suggest that he hadn’t thought about her since that night in his family drawing room. That was the first night he truly felt out of place amongst the Death Eaters. As Hermione lay on the drawing room floor, her body convulsing, her blood dripping all over the carpet, Draco didn’t see her as a worthless bag of usurped magic. He didn’t see a _filthy Mudblood,_ as he had once called her.

And, how could he? How could he see her as anything less than the brightest witch of their age? How could he see her as anything less than good?

Often, when he thought of Hermione, he thought of Professor Slughorn praising her for accurately describing Amortentia. He thought of the look on her face as her chest rose and fell quickly, her eyes widening as she stepped closer to the cauldron in front of her. He remembered her naming the things that she could smell: fresh cut grass, new parchment, and _something_ _else_. Her eyes had flickered in his direction when she’d mumbled those words before stepping back into the safety net that was Potter and Weasley. He knew what he smelled the moment he stepped into the classroom that day. He’d smelled the Malfoy library and all of the ink stored in its many pages, the scent of a newly polished broom, and the flowery hint of Hermione’s shampoo. It smelled like peonies and tulips. It smelled like safety.

He read the letter from the Ministry two or three more times, he wasn’t sure. _One_ _Hermione_ _Granger_. Draco wasn’t sure if he was sick or excited. But, he was sure that he was hesitant to believe that in a few days he wouldn’t be trapped behind Azkaban’s metal bars if Hermione got her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who's read this far! please let me know what you think!


	3. SONNET 3: LET DAINTY WITS CRY ON THE SISTERS NINE

SONNET 3

_Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,  
_ _That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;  
_ _Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,  
_ _Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.  
_ _Or else let them in statelier glory shine,  
_ _Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;  
_ _Or with strange similes enrich each line,  
_ _Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.  
_ _For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;  
_ _Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,  
_ _And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.  
_ _How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read  
_ _What love and beauty be; then all my deed  
_ _But copying is, what in her Nature writes._

* * *

Draco awoke Thursday morning as hungover as he had the morning of his last probationary meeting, and every meeting before that one. As he hugged the toilet he thought about what Hermione Granger might say if she were to see him like this. He wondered if it’d earn him pity, or if she’d curse him while he was face-deep in last night’s regrets.

Theodore had taken him to a new bar that had opened up in Wizarding London—The Golden Chalices. The image of the sign above the front door, three golden chalices, had caused his eyes to roll so far back into his head that he had feared briefly that they’d be stuck there. Theodore had assured him that the new bar was in no way, shape, or form associated with Potter, Weasley, or Granger—it was purely coincidental. The cursive writing behind the hostess stand had said differently, but the fine print did indicate that none of them received any kind of monetary payment from the establishment.

The prices were decent, and the food had been okay. Draco wasn’t too proud to admit that he’d consumed more alcohol than food in the… six?… hours he and Theodore had spent tossing money onto the bar.

Pansy and Blaise had arrived at some point. Draco didn’t remember exactly when, it was somewhere in-between the firewhiskey on ice and the shots of rum. Theodore had let them in on Draco’s latest predicament, and Pansy was interested to the point where Draco grew uncomfortable.

“So, is she going to be like…” Pansy’s eyes were wide as she sipped on the straw of her vodka cranberry. “ _Living_ with you?”

“I _bloody_ hope not,” was Draco’s reaction. For a moment his heart jolted, but then he immediately shook his head. And took another shot of rum. “Honestly, that sounds like torture, and I think that’s illegal. Also, no way she would let that happen. I’d love to see a judge try to make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“They’re making her look after you,” Theodore laughed. “And I’m sure she’s less than thrilled.”

Blaise remained nonchalant for most of the night, not once letting his hand drift from Pansy’s hip. It was unusual for him to not offer any input, and Draco eyed him more than a few times. It wasn’t until Pansy got up to use the bathroom that Draco finally asked the million dollar question.

“What about you, Blaise?” In the corner of hiss eye, Draco could see the grin that had taken over Theodore’s face.

“I think you’re going to do something stupid,” Blaise said simply, sipping on his beer. “I think that we’ve only had a year to cope with what happened. And I think you have a lot of pressure on you, and that you’re going to do something stupid. I just don’t know what that something is. And, I’m happy it’s Granger looking after you. She’ll keep you in line.”

Draco threw up again. Why wouldn’t they just throw him in Azkaban? If that was to be the end result anyway, why put him through all of the trouble? To teach him a lesson?

He gathered himself up from the floor and stepped in the shower, letting the steam wash away the night before. He had to compose himself. Blaise was right, as always. He was bound to do something stupid.

Choosing an outfit took longer than Draco would have liked, and he finally settled on his standard black professional robes that he’d taken to wearing with the white button up. He searched through his tie drawer, his fingers not daring to land on any of the colorful and patterned ties Narcissa had bought him over the years. He finally settled on not wearing a tie at all, leaving his top two buttons to do as they pleased. He wondered if Hermione would notice that his chest had grown more broad, and his arms were more muscular now. He shook the thoughts of what Hermione would notice from his mind as he made his way to the fireplace with purpose.

He was greeted by an Auror when he got off the lift on the second floor of the Ministry who asked for his wand. He handed it over, trying not to seem hesitant. Handing over one’s wand, especially after a war, makes one feel something in between betrayal and disgust.

The Auror lead Draco down the hall. The floor was busy as usual, and Draco took the time to look around and notice how on schedule everyone seemed to be. He found the sureness with which everyone moved, as if they had these walks from room to room countless times, intriguing.

Hermione Granger was already in the conference room. She was seated to the left of the judge, speaking to him in hushed but firm tones. She was frustrated, Draco could tell from her body language. Her knuckles were clasped so hard together on the table that her knuckles were white. He coughed to get their attention.

“Mr. Malfoy!” The judge beamed, gesturing for him to sit down. Hermione Granger looked everywhere except at him, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Welcome! Please, have a seat. Ms. Granger and I were just discussing the terms of her involvement in your probationary process.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Draco forced a smile as he sat in the chair directly across from her. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, wild strands framing her face against the light. Her shoulders were tight, as was her jaw.

“I don’t understand why it has to be me,” she kept her eyes on the judge. “I’m not a trained Auror. I’m just an administrator, I was there to document your cases for that day—”

“Excuse me,” Draco cut in, eyebrow raised. “You expect me to believe that you’re _just_ an administrator?”

The judge looked between them, as if he knew something neither of them did. He put on his glasses.

“Regardless of Ms. Granger’s job title, she is _more than equipped_ ,” he aimed that part at her, “to look after you. I’m not asking for anything crazy here. But, honestly, your lawyer was an idiot, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve gotten this far because I like you, and because—”

Hermione coughed. She kept her eyes on the table, ignoring both of them.

“—you’ve got good in you, kid. But you’re also a kid.”

“I’m eighteen!” The moment the words were out of Draco’s mouth, he realized how childish they sounded. That caused him to huff, crossing his arms over his chest. He wanted to see the look on Granger’s face, but he was too nervous to look.

“Hermione will be the first person to put you in jail,” the judge continued. “Which means she’ll also be the first person to be honest about your intentions, and if you won’t be a danger to yourself and others.”

“You’re worried about the damage I could do to myself?” Draco scoffed, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m worried about the future of the Wizarding world,” the judge deadpanned. “We just had a war. I’m on your side, Draco, but forgive us for being wary. We don’t know what you’re capable of.”

_Guilt._

Draco couldn’t help but look at Granger’s face then. She was staring at him, her chin set. She looked… angry. Like she wanted to punch him in the face. He remembered the few times he’d caught her unguarded in the library at school. She’d be talking to someone, or laughing at something she’d been reading. And her eyes were warm then. They were warm in the Great Hall when she was with Potter and Weasley, and their other friends. Now, they were hot with distrust, and cold with disdain. Draco didn’t know eyes could be hot and cold at the same time—but there was Granger, continuously proving that witches were capable of seeing through even the most carefully crafted bullshit.

“I understand,” Draco took a steadying breath. “Forgive me, but it’s not in my nature to…” he searched for the proper words. “To listen to those who tell me what to do.”

“I can think of a few times when you _did_ listen.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He knew she was egging him on, wanting him to lash out and prove that he was… what did she want him to be? Evil? She didn’t know what evil was. She was too good to know what evil felt like, when it was living in your house, breaking into your mind. Consuming you from every angle, pulling at you until you feel as if your flesh is going to burn. She didn’t know what that was like.

 _Guilt_.

Who was he to assume that his struggles were of more importance than hers?

“I want it on the record that I don’t feel like I have to do it,” Draco continued, “but I am willing to prove that I’m not going to hurt anyone. I did what I had to do to survive during a time when I felt I had to, and I accept the consequences of my actions. As you have said, the war is over. And I want to move on just as much as everyone else.”

He searched for her eyes, but they were on the judge. And then they were on the clock. And then the floor.

“Yourself and Ms. Granger will meet once per week at a location of your choosing,” the judge stated. “She will fill out a report and give it to me. I will want details of your weekly happenings, any clubs or events you attend, things of that nature. It will allow you freedom to do as you please without Auror watch, and we rely on your honesty. Ms. Granger has permission to track your location, should she feel you are being dishonest. By January first, I want you to be settled, son. You could have a bright future ahead of you. I don’t want it to get lost.”

Draco nearly rolled his eyes. He didn’t need the Ministry—and Granger—to force him to get a job. He also didn’t have to prove that he wasn’t a ruthless Death Eater like they wanted him to be. It seemed that they wanted him to fail, and they wanted the girl he’d watched be tortured to be the one to catch him in the act.

They were to meet every Tuesday at 5pm. Hermione chose the Leaky Cauldron, as it was a popular and public space. She wanted to make sure there were witnesses, she said. So that Draco couldn’t do anything he’d be sorry for.

He was torn between understanding why people felt that way, and wanting to blast them for being so naive as to view him in that light. He wasn’t a murderer, but he could be insufferable. He knew that what he’d done during his time at Hogwarts, but who could blame him? He’d been a child. A child whose father had… blast it all. His father hadn’t made him call Granger a _Mudblood_. But, he had taught him that those who weren’t pure were beneath people like him. He’d started fights, had broken hundreds of school rules. Most of it in his efforts, he’d admit, to get Potter, Weasley, and Granger into trouble. During his time in Voldemort’s presence, he’d come to realize _why_ he’d gotten that mark on his arm. He’d deserved it, in a way. His past actions, though not inherently evil, had set Draco up for a life filled with it.

Hermione left the room as soon as the meeting was over. Draco watched as she waited for the lift, clearly anxious to be anywhere else. He wondered how she was really feeling, having to be put in charge of him. He wondered how often she thought about that night at the Manor—if it was more than he did.

* * *

Narcissa suggested that she and Draco go out to dinner with Pansy and her mother. Draco would have been more against the idea if his mother was still holding on the idea of a Malfoy-Parkinson wedding, but somewhere around fifth year she’d let that ship sail. And Draco had been more than thankful for it.

It wasn’t that Pansy wasn’t his type, or that she wasn’t attractive. They had briefly dated during fourth year, but it had never progressed further than teenage romance. And the pair were close enough beforehand to know that they were better off as friends. Besides, she’d always had her eyes on Blaise. And Draco… Draco’s eyes had been drifting to the Gryffindor table for months. Since his encounter with the hippogryff, really. He’d caught Granger speaking in whispers to Madam Pomfrey, asking about his recovery and if his arm was as damaged as the Slytherins thought. Madam Pomfrey assured her that he’d be alright, and she was sorry that Draco’s dramatics had worried her. _His dramatics?_ he’d thought at the time. _Just wait until I really get hurt, Granger. Then you’ll be worried._

But, he had gotten hurt far worse, and Granger hadn’t been worried. Now, she wanted him to rot.

Draco did his best to dress well and pull his emotions from his face. He began putting up the immovable walls Bellaxtrix had taught him to build to keep others out, to keep himself safe. He knew Pansy would be itching to talk about his meeting with Granger and the judge, and that a few drinks would have her giggling all over the dinner table while their mother’s stared in horror.

They met in an upscale restaurant somewhere in Wizarding London. Narcissa had been raging about it since she’d eaten lunch there with the Greengrasses a few weeks prior, and Pansy’s mother seemed equally as thrilled. Their children, on the other hand, made straight for the drink menu as soon as they were seated.

The restaurant was quaint and dimly light, the waiters wearing the finest robes. Each employee of the establishment was more attractive than the last, and Draco watched as Pansy’s eyes ravaged their waiter while he took their drink orders. He let his own eyes gloss over the hostess who had seated them, trying to find something about her that roused his own interest. But, he found nothing. She was… plain. A lot of other beautiful witches looked exactly like her.

Except one.

Where the hostess’ legs were thin and rather straight, Hermione’s calves hinted at the strong thighs underneath, and the way that her hips would curve if only Draco could see through her robes. Hermione’s arms too were stronger, her hands somehow more delicate and graceful. The hostess could barely hold two menus, and Hermione had the ability to carry the entire Wizarding world in hers. The hostess’ hair was slicked back, with hair gel or grease Draco couldn’t tell. It was nothing like the soft, wild curls that framed Hermione’s face every single day.

“… isn’t that right, Draco?”

Draco tore his eyes off the hostess and brought them back to the table. All three women were staring at him expectantly. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” he waved them off, looking to the bar. The waiter was waiting for the last of their drinks to make it onto his service tray. Good.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him but let it go, turning back to Pansy’s mother.

“He’s been put on a lenient probationary period,” Narcissa continued. “That Granger girl has been put in charge of his case.”

“That’s what Pansy was telling me,” more eyebrows were raised in his direction. He wanted to spontaneously combust. “What are your thoughts about that, Draco?”

Women were going to be the death of him.

“What do you mean?” he asked, taking his drink off the waiter’s tray before the waiter had come to a complete stop at their table. “I don’t have any thoughts other than this entire situation is ridiculous.”

He gauged their faces, trying to pick out just exactly what their feelings were toward his words and actions. He wondered if they didn’t trust him just as much as the Ministry.

“My dear,” Pansy’s mom reached out to place a tender hand on his left wrist. “They’re trying their hardest. There is a lot of public opinion that—”

“That I should be in Azkaban, I get it,” Draco pulled his left arm out from beneath her touch, using that hand to push his hair out of his face. “But, really. Taking time out of Granger’s busy schedule to watch me? Seems a bit… pointless. Just let an Auror watch over me, or lock me up, or leave me alone.”

“I think it’ll be good for you,” Pansy eyed him knowingly. “After all, spending _that much time_ with someone so different from you could be good for you.”

“So you admit that she _is_ different from us?”

Draco wished he could take back his words the moment they fell from his mouth. Both of their mother’s tensed in their seats, looking around as if they worried someone had heard them. Narcissa looked to Pansy for help. Screw them all. He hadn’t meant it _that_ way.

“What are you implying?”

Three sets of eyes were glued on his face. He closed his eyes, hearing his aunt’s words in his mind. _Your mind is like a vault, Draco. A vault full of wonderful and terrible things. Lock it all away, Draco. Tuck everything into the furthest corner of your skull. Push everything away._ He opened them again, hoping his expression was neutral.

 _Guilt_.

“I’m implying that I think it’s time for me to go.”

With that, Draco stood from the table and made his way to the exit. It had begun raining while they were inside, and he wished he’d brought a proper jacket. Movement caught in the corner of his eye—brown, wild curls. He turned his head to get a closer look, ignoring the fact that his heart had begun to speed up. The girl stepped into view and his heart sank, causing a frown to slip onto his lips. He hadn’t realized he wanted that witch to be Hermione Granger until she wasn’t.

“Damn it all,” he grumbled to himself as he tightened his arms around his chest. He concentrated on the sight of his living room, the feeling of the warm glow in his fireplace, and the smell of May’s jasmine tea. He was home and stalking off to his bedroom before he had the chance to think about Hermione Granger again.

And, when he did, he thought of her hair and the ways that she constantly tried to keep it under control. He thought of her nose and the way it turned up slightly at the end, as if daring each and every other witch and wizard to try and get in her way. He thought of how she hid behind modest robes and facts and answers to the world’s worst trivia questions. Draco thought she’d make a perfectly good politician if only she had the temperament for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for everyone who has read this far!! i'm loving where this story is headed, and i'm really excited to continue on this journey with you guys! please leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. SONNET 4: VIRTUE, ALAS, NOW LET ME TAKE SOME REST

SONNET 4

_Virtue, alas, now let me take some rest._  
_Thou sett'st a 'bate between my will and wit:_  
_If vain love have my simple soul oppressed,_  
_Leave what thou lik'st not, deal not thou with it._  
_Thy sceptre use in some old Cato 's breast;_  
_Churches or schools are for thy seat more fit._  
_I do confess, pardon a fault confessed,_  
_My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit._  
_But if that needs thou wilt usurping be_  
_The little reason that is left in me,_  
_And still th'effect of thy persuasions prove:_  
_I swear my heart such one shall show to thee,_  
_That shrines in flesh so true a deity,_  
_That, Virtue, thou thyself shalt be in love._

* * *

Tuesday came faster than Draco imagined it would. One night he was sipping tea with his mother, laughing off his firewhiskey buzz in the tea room, pretending that he hadn’t walked out on their dinner with the Parkinsons, and the next he was pacing back and forth in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron. He felt overdressed and underprepared. He hadn’t done… anything… since their Thursday meeting with Judge Barron. He felt like a First Year all over again.

Hermione had been early. He’d arrived at 4:50 pm sharp, and she’d already been seated at a table toward the back. He could see her sitting there through the window, her bag beside her on the bench. Her hair was down, and it was long enough now to disappear beneath the edge of the table. Her curls seemed more under control than usual as if she’d made some kind of attempt to tame them. For a moment he missed the wild way that they usually clung to her cheeks and the space where her ears met her neck, but those thoughts stopped when he realized she’d added a light shimmer to her eyelids, and a soft berry tone to her lips.

She was busy flipping through the _Daily Prophet_ and scribbling things down on notepads. She also had what looked like a few loose packets of court documents scattered about.

 _They’re yours_ , a voice screamed in his head. _My mind is like a vault. Lock it all away._

Draco didn’t know how versed in Legilimency Hermione was, or if she’d even attempt something like that with him. Somehow she was able to track his location. That much Draco remembered. He wondered how and if she’d already chosen to do so.

He waited until 5:01 pm to enter after he triple checked his appearance in the window. Cuff links? Check. Top two buttons undone? Check. Black suit jacket unbuttoned? Check. Heart-stopping smirk? Check. Nerves that felt as if they were going to explode? Double-check.

Hermione didn’t look up at him until he cleared his throat, refusing to sit down until she acknowledged him. He wasn’t sure what the process for these meetings would be, and Draco figured it was best to let Hermione call the shots. After all, she was a Ministry employee.

She eyed him carefully as she began to organize the stray papers and folders scattered across the table.

“Malfoy,” she said his name as if it was a curse, refusing to meet his eyes. “Have a seat.”

Draco did as he was told, wanting to upset her as little as possible. One thing Cleveland had taught him was that as long as you smiled at all the right times, and nodded when the pauses were right, the government would try to have you out of its programs as quickly as possible.

“How’s your week been, Granger?” he asked as she began setting up a page in a notebook. He couldn’t see what she was writing over the stack of papers, and he supposed that was the point. She ignored his question as if he hadn’t asked it at all. “Would you like something to—?”

He’d been ready to say the word _drink_ , but before he could a youthful wizard appeared carrying a Butterbeer and a shot of firewhiskey.

“Judge Barron told me the whiskey kept you conversational,” the smile that eased its way onto Hermione’s face nearly ran Draco’s blood cold. It was a calculated smile, as if she was waiting for him to challenge her. “So. Let’s get started so that we can be finished. When is the last time you were gainfully employed?”

“As opposed to…?” Draco trailed off, picking up the shot glass. He held it in his hands, feeling uneasy. It felt wrong to do shots in front of a witch who was sipping politely on a Butterbeer, of all drinks. “Do you mind if I get this on ice? I’m not much of a shot man unless I’m trying to get sloshed.”

Draco hurried to the bar before she could answer, nearly slamming the shot glass down in his hurry. He could feel the locks in his metaphorical mind vault all unlatching, nearly falling over themselves as he started to unravel. The bartender obliged and took the shot away, replacing it with a double shot over ice. Draco paid the difference and opened a tab for their table. No way he was going to let Hermione Granger pay for his—or her own—drinks, even if it was with Ministry money.

“Are you quite finished?” she asked when he made it back to the table. Draco wanted to pretend that there were the faint traces of a smile dancing across her lips, but he couldn’t be sure. He was too busy trying to figure out what shade of berry she’d tinted them with.

“What was your question again, Granger?” he took a sip, focusing on the two ice cubes swirling around in the amber liquid. _Lock it all away._

“When is the last time you were gainfully employed?” Hermione asked again. “As in, when is the last time you had a job?”

“I never needed one,” Draco answered simply. He took another sip and then fidgeted on the bench, trying to get more comfortable. There was no smooth way to cross his left leg over his right knee, so he settled for awkwardly extending both of his legs outward beneath the table. He angled them away from Hermione, of course—Hermione and her own outstretched legs.

She was wearing an olive green blouse that swooped lower than nearly any other shirt he’d ever seen her in, held together directly between her breasts with one delicate white button. Her pants were black, and cuffed at the ankles, showing off a pair of brown flats. A black jacket lay on top of the bag to her left. Draco was having a hard time remembering how to breathe.

“So, never?” She was going to make him admit that he’d never had a job. As if that was some kind of insult.

“Not unless you count my year-long stint with everyone’s favorite rock and roll band, The Death Eaters,” Draco sipped at his drink. She didn’t laugh. He hadn’t thought she would, but it was worth a shot. He controlled the smirk that wanted to take over his lips. “Macnair could play a mean guitar if you had ever bothered to ask.”

“Pity it didn’t come up during the trials.” Hermione’s lips were pressed thin. He dropped his gaze and decided to stop attempting jokes. _Lock it all away._ “What classes interested you the most during your time at Hogwarts?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the school would hand over my grade reports, and I’m sure it’d be easy enough to figure out which ones I was best at.”

“Best at isn’t the same as it being your favorite,” Hermione cocked her head to the side. For the first time, it felt as if she was truly looking at him—scanning his face for hidden emotions or meanings or extra thoughts. Things that could all be written down and handed over to the Ministry like donations. “My favorite class was Ancient Runes, but I have a knack for Transfiguration and passed that class all while barely lifting my wand.”

“We all can’t be the Brightest Witch, Granger, in case you’d forgotten,” Draco finished the rest of his drink in two succinct sips. These women were exacerbating his drinking habits. “I mostly enjoyed Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Hermione pursed her lips and wrote her notes, keeping them frustratingly hidden from his point of view.

“What did you enjoy about those classes?”

He couldn’t tell if she was reading from some sort of form, or simply asking questions as she thought of them. He didn’t know which method would be worse. A form would be too… formal for Granger, although Draco didn’t know how he felt about the idea of her honestly asking him these questions. She sure seemed to be here strictly for business.

Draco thought about her question for a few moments before answering. He wanted to be honest.

“Potions class was… simple. Enjoyable. It’s an easy branch of magic—you simply have to trust yourself and the ingredients that you use. It’s beautiful, really, to take little bits of nature and mix them together to create any number of things: emotions, states of mind, medicine. I enjoyed that aspect a lot. You know, ‘bottling glory’ or whatever it was that Slughorn said. I much preferred Snape’s Potions classes, but I suppose that goes without saying.”

“And,” Hermione took a deep breath, sipped her Butterbeer, and then hesitantly raised her eyes to meet his. “Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

Draco’s left leg wanted to bounce beneath the table, but he forced it to remain still as he sat up in his seat. He folded both of his hands on the table and leaned forward—still couldn’t see her notes—before continuing.

“Growing up in the kind of family that I did,” Draco forced out a soft chuckle to keep the mood light, “you learn from an early age that Dark Magic is not only powerful but dangerous. The same magic that gives you power—however fleeting it may be—can be used against you. As we reached our Fourth and Fifth Years, I realized just how silly Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum was. They weren’t teaching us how to defend ourselves against Dark Magic. The closest to a true Dark Arts teacher we got was Moody—and he wasn’t even the real Auror. And second to that was Potter teaching all of you the stuff that the professors were too afraid to teach during Fifth Year. That in and of itself should go to show just how little Hogwarts did to prepare us for what happened.”

“You liked that it was taught poorly?” Draco knew that Hermione was simply asking for clarification, but her question rubbed him the wrong way.

“I liked the _idea_ of that class, Granger,” he dropped his hands from the table. His eyes kept darting to the bar where more alcohol could be found. His throat wanted to feel the burn of the firewhiskey, but his body kept him rooted in place. No need to make himself look a fool in front of Granger during their first meeting. He probably shouldn’t have opened that tab. “I liked what it was _supposed_ to teach us. I simply think that the execution was poor.”

“Mhm,” she scribbled down more notes. “Were those the only classes you enjoyed?”

“Charms class will always have a special place in my memory,” Draco admitted. “I’m gifted when it comes to charms.”

“Gifted?”

“As in I’m good at them.”

_Guilt._

Draco watched as Hermione finished her Butterbeer, keeping her eyes on her notes as her quill flew across the parchment.

“I didn’t realize that something as silly as Charms class could hold Draco Malfoy’s interest.”

“Do you need another drink?” Draco ignored her slight dig at him, willing his self-esteem and his mental locks to stay in place. She was trying to get under his skin, and he was trying to be left alone by the Ministry. Forget the way that the warm, orange light from the sunset was filtering through the dusty windows and falling gently against her cheekbone and nose. And who even really cared about the way that her eyebrows would furrow as she focused on her notes?

Her eyes lingered on the parchment in front of her for a few moments before she answered, her head beginning to turn but her eyes refusing to follow. She glanced back and forth between him and the page three times—why was he counting?—before fully bringing up her gaze to meet his. Her expression was serious and slightly offended.

“This isn’t some sort of—”

Draco put his hands up in surrender before she could finish her sentence. Swiftly, he gathered their glasses before making his way back to the bar. He changed his mind. He’d close out the tab and then be done with this bullshit.

“Just one fire whiskey on ice, a double shot if you could.” Draco put the money down on the bar and waited, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the wizard making his drink. “And one water if you could. Thanks, mate.” Draco dropped an extra coin on the counter for the wizard’s troubles and then made his way back to the table.

* * *

At 6pm sharp, Hermione began packing up her belongings. She kept her eyes downcast and jaw set, as if she was preparing to aim her wand at his throat at a moment’s notice. The muscles in her neck tensed and relaxed as she moved. Draco had never realized how long and slender her neck was. He found himself wondering why she didn’t wear more jewelry. His mother would call it a sin to not decorate a neck like that.

“So, next week? Same time?” Draco asked. He remained seated as Hermione stood, not wanting to risk being attacked. She was clearly on edge. He could see in her eyes the list of things that she wanted to say. Insults, mostly. He considered trying to tap into what she was thinking but decided against it. If he was intentionally keeping walls up, he’d respect her right to a private train of thought.

Hermione took a deep breath as she lifted her bag onto her shoulder. She seemed tired and worn out, as if she’d had a long week already and it was only Tuesday. He tried to remember what he knew about her day-to-day activities post-Hogwarts, but nothing was coming up.

“That’s what Judge Barron said,” she replied simply. “And every Tuesday after that until January.”

“And you’re just going to be asking me about my time at Hogwarts?” Draco chewed on his bottom lip. “Honestly, I think we can get a lot more done if you let me just—”

“Just what?” Her tone changed. It was icy and frustrated. Her emotions were written all over her face, and he traced each feeling with his eyes as if he was doing it with his fingers. Frustration settled at the bridge of her nose and sank into the corners of her lips.

“Are you going to spend the rest of our meetings constantly cutting me off?” Draco was beginning to lose his cool. _Lock everything away._ “Because if you had let me finish, I would have told you.”

“You’re a twat.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a—”

“Filthy Mudblood? Yeah, I remember.”

“For the love of Salazar,” Draco slammed his hands down on the table. “I wasn’t going to say that!”

The few witches and wizards who had begun to populate the bar turned to look at the pair, most of their eyes curious and a few concerned. Draco stood then, making sure to stay clear of Granger’s range of motion. He knew just how bad her punches hurt.

Her chest was rising and falling quickly, her breaths short and sporadic. She was eyeing him like he was some sort of threat, as if he’d actually do something to hurt her.

_Guilt._

_Lock everything away._

“See you next week, Granger.”

Draco turned then to leave, not daring to look back. He hated that one sentence from her was enough to start to undo all of the locks that he’d spent years putting in place for his own safety and protection. He also hated how damn perfect she seemed to be. The only fault in her that he’d found was her ability to think that everything was about her every damn minute of every damn day. That, and the insufferable opinion she held that she was always the smartest witch in the room.

As Draco stepped out into the street, he was greeted by two of his friends leaning not-so-casually against the window. They pulled back quickly, smoothing out their clothes and trying to look casual.

“ _So_ ,” Pansy couldn’t hide the light twinkling in her eyes. Blaise looked as if he wanted to punch Draco on Hermione’s behalf. “That looked like it got heated.”

Draco rolled his eyes and shoved past them, wanting to be anywhere else but there. They followed him down the street, Blaise keeping an easy pace and Pansy practically jogging to keep up.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco grumbled. Blaise reached out to put an arm on his shoulder, stopping him in the middle of the street. His mental locks were starting to come undone, and Draco weighed his choices. Let his friends see his emotions, or keep everything bottled up? Or apparate back home, lock his bedroom door, and pretend that the last hour hadn’t happened?

“We weren’t eavesdropping if that’s what you think,” Blaise’s voice was open and honest, his eyes reflecting the same. “We were walking by when Ms. Nosy over here saw the two of you through the window. We were watching for maybe a minute or so before you came out. And we didn’t use an amplifying charm, that I can assure you of.”

Draco looked the pair up and down, feeling his anger start to deflate. His head was beginning to hurt behind his right temple, and he brought a hand up to massage it. Pansy looked as if she wanted to reach out and touch him too, but kept her distance behind Blaise’s left shoulder.

“It’s been a rough day,” Draco allowed, taking half of a step back from them. “Granger gets on my last damned nerve. Who does she think she is, anyway? Constantly cutting me off and assuming what I’m going to say before I even say it.”

Blaise nodded in understanding, finally dropping his arm from Draco’s shoulder. He put his hands into the pockets of his black dress pants, and Pansy took a step forward to loop her arm through his.

“We were actually heading to the tea shop if you wanted to join us,” she said, her voice softest he’d ever heard it. “I don’t think you should go home and obsess over this.”

“Me? Obsess over _Granger_?” Draco scoffed. Blaise and Pansy narrowed their eyes and then forced their expressions to appear more neutral. Draco hated that they had started to become the same person.

He knew what both of them were thinking. One of his special skills was obsessing over things, and in his teenage years they knew Granger took up much of his mental space. Until the battle in the Department of Mysteries. Then everything changed. You can’t let one witch fill up your mind when you have to keep everything locked away to avoid losing your own life.

Draco took what felt like the thirtieth steadying breath of the day.

“I actually have to go home and have dinner with my mother. Maybe later on this week?”

Draco knew it was better to decline an invitation with another invitation, however half-hearted it may be. Blaise and Pansy accepted and walked him to the nearest alley so that he wouldn’t apparate in the middle of the street. With a small smile plastered onto his face, Draco waved them good-bye and then nearly knocked May over as he crash-landed in the living room.

“Master has returned!” The smile that spread across May’s face had all of Draco’s mental locks falling away within moments. “Mistress is in the dining room waiting for you, sir!”

Draco bowed, which May loved, and chuckled at her as he walked into the hallway. The new Manor was free of portraits of the Malfoy line. Instead, they were decorated with old French artworks that his mother had begun collecting after the war. She spent three months traveling through France, visiting relatives and friends that she hadn’t seen since his father was imprisoned. She’d brought back with her an excessive amount of art, coffee, and wine. The wine was what kept Draco from complaining about the rest. His mother sure did know how to find a good bottle at an even better price.

Narcissa was seated at the table already, reading the _Daily Prophet_ as she took dainty spoonful after spoonful of soup and brought it to her lips. Her eyes sparkled when he walked through the door.

“Draco, dear, have a seat!” she beamed at him, folding up the newspaper and putting it to the side.

“Anything interesting in the news today?” Draco asked as he sat down. His stomach growled the moment he laid eyes on the soup, and he began shoveling it into his mouth with abandon.

“Not anything beyond the usual,” Narcissa shrugged, taking a sip of her wine. “Coverage about the war is slowing down. Skeeter is back to her usual gossiping. Mostly covering Potter, Weasly, and Granger.”

Draco nodded, slowing down as he neared the bottom of the soup bowl. The moment it was finished the plate disappeared from the table and was replaced with some sort of chicken with potatoes and carrots. He could smell lemon and rosemary in the steam that wafted up from the plate.

“Sounds boring,” he said simply. His mother chuckled.

“To some, maybe,” she picked up her soup spoon. “Whatever sells, right?”

The rest of their dinner went by without incident, and Draco was just happy to be alone in his home. His mother steered clear of any more Granger talk, and he was thankful for it. He’d had enough Hermione Granger for one day.

But then, the day slipped into the night without warning. One moment the sun was setting and Draco was riding his broom across the grounds, simply enjoying the feeling of the wind in his hair. And then, he was in bed and struggling to sleep as the sounds of her words rattled in his mind.

_“Filthy Mudblood? Yeah, I remember.”_

Blast that stupid, smart, brilliant fucking witch. She was testing Draco’s nerve, wanting to see how far she could push him before he broke. Well, he wasn’t going to break. Next time, she wouldn’t get a rise out of him. His voice would stay calm, his expressions composed. He’d answer her blasted questions and circle want adds in the _Daily Prophet_. Anything to keep her from looking at him that way again.

And, in January, they could part ways. She could scurry back to the Ministry and her false optimism that working for them would help her fix the broken world that was Wizarding society. It had been a faulty system since before she’d arrived, and it would be broken long after she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of you who have read this far, i'm so thankful!! this story is one of the few things holding me together during this pandemic & my recent break-up; i'm happy you're enjoying it! please let me know what you think!


	5. SONNET 5: IT IS MOST TRUE—THAT EYES ARE FORMED TO SERVE

SONNET 5

_It is most true—that eyes are formed to serve  
The inward light; and that the heavenly part  
Ought to be king; from whose rules, who doth swerve,  
Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart.  
It is most true, what we call Cupid’s dart,  
An image is, which for ourselves we carve,  
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart;  
Till that good god make church and churchmen starve.  
True, that true beauty Virtue is indeed,  
Whereof this beauty can be but a shade,  
Which elements with mortal mixture breed;  
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made,  
And should in soul up to our country move;  
True—and yet true, that I must Stella love._

* * *

Draco spent the rest of his week wandering about the Malfoy property, hanging from apple tree branches, and lazing about in the conservatory. The peonies and tulips were nearing the end of their blooming season, and he wondered idly what his mother would plant there next. He made a silent promise to himself that they'd help her this time, and try to be more involved in making the Manor their new home. He was sure she'd like that. 

He idly wondered how Hermione spent her time. What kind of home she lived in, and if she lived alone. He asked himself if Hermione was the type to buy herself a small flat, probably tucked away somewhere in Muggle London where she didn't have to be disturbed. After all, she probably felt more at home with Muggles than she did with witches and wizards. Or had her years in their world made her one of them?

Did she still have that cat? Crook- _something_. An odd little beast with a smushed up face that Draco often thought looked more like a bulldog than a cat. He'd never seen the appeal, but he knew that Hermione was ferociously protective of him. Had the cat survived the war? 

It was Friday when a realization smacked him so aggressively that he nearly fell out of the apple tree. 

_All I've been doing is thinking about her._

But, Draco couldn't help himself. As he hung upside down, his knees barely catching him in time, he swung back and forth and let the realization settle in his bones. 

"Accio Journal," he lazily pointed his wand in the direction of his bedroom window. The moment journal after journal began to fly out of the window directly at his face, and he regretted his choices. 

Draco and the journals crashed to the ground. He rubbed his hip as he righted himself against the base of the tree, cursing at his lapse in judgment. Of course, he shouldn't have summoned nearly _twenty_ journals while hanging upside down from a tree. 

He flipped through them lazily, chuckling at his past self and his ramblings. Granger's name didn't start to appear regularly until his Fourth Year. The first time he'd written down her first name was the Yule Ball. 

_December 25, 1994_

_The Yule Ball was as dreadful as I'd thought it would be. Pansy dragged me out of the dormitories and forced me into one of the most uncomfortable sets of formal robes I've ever worn. And I've worn dozens (re: any entry about a party that my mother hosted). Honestly, these women are ridiculous._

_Anyway. Hogwarts thought that they'd done an excellent job decorating. As if summoning a few fairies and putting up some lights changed how dreadful this castle looks. It's as if they don't realize you can't make something so ugly look anything close to the Manor at Christmas. What would Dumbledore say if he were ever to be invited? Forget fairies and glitter; mother knows the best decorators. She fills the house with enchanted smells and snow that feels cold as the real thing; only it doesn't melt. The wall trim is lined with strings of garland; the table cloths shimmer in the light from the fireplaces in every room. I simply don't think they had the budget to do much else—such a shame. If my father had known how awful this ball was going to be, he would have offered up his donation solely for the decor._

_Not to mention that, but having The Weird Sisters play? As if that makes up for the terrible decorating and the bland food? Please._

_Pansy had worn a god-awful looking dress. I'm not sure where she got it from, but that shop should be permanently closed. It's a crime to put a decent looking girl like Pans in something as hideous as that dress._

_I was getting ready to leave when Hermione Granger walked in. I know. But listen. You didn't see the way that she looked. Her hair—that frizzy, awful mess that blocked your view in class if you were stuck behind her—had been tamed and pulled back into one of the most delicate up-dos I've seen on a witch. Her dress was a lovely shade of periwinkle blue, and it hugged her in all the right places. If you'd tried to tell me yesterday that Hermione Granger had hips and a chest that makes you wish you could see through fabric, I would have cursed you._

_One minute I was letting Pansy fix my tie for the thirtieth time, and the next, I couldn't breathe as Hermione Granger walked down the steps in the Great Hall. Potter and Weasley looked as if they were drooling. I'm sure I looked just as downright stupid._

_But, again, you didn't see the way she looked. Or the way that she danced. On the arm of Viktor Krum, no doubt. Of course. She does nothing but be a nuisance, and she gets to walk on the arm of the most excellent seeker in the world._

_What does he have that I don't? I know this makes me sound childish, but honestly? I'm a seeker. I'm a pureblood. I have enough money to make up for whatever he earns on the Quidditch Pitch._

_Tomorrow, Hermione Granger will be back to being the insufferable know-it-all we all know her to be. I'll remember how she walks around the school as if she owns the place with no magic lineage to back up her supposed skill. But, tonight, she was the most beautiful witch I've ever laid eyes on._

Draco rolled his eyes at his fourteen-year-old self. He sounded so… young. So naive. What a waste of a perfectly beautiful night with Pansy. He remembered that he'd been so busy trying to catch glimpses of Hermione in her dress that he'd been ignorantly unaware of just how hard Pansy had been trying to get in his pants. 

He leafed through entry after entry that read in much the same fashion. 

_February 24, 1995_

_This tournament is the most significant load of Hogwash I've ever seen. Hermione Granger dances with Viktor Krum at one blasted party, and then she's being petrified and sunk to the bottom of a lake? In her school, robes no less. If only I could tell my father how absurd these games are becoming. …_

_June 24, 1995_

_The Dark Lord is back. Cedric Diggory was killed. I find myself growing restless. Not because I'm worried about my family—we're safe as long as the Dark Lord is alive. No. I'm concerned about Hermione Granger. I'm afraid she'll be attacked. And, I don't know why I'm feeling this way. I shouldn't. She shouldn't be taking up this much space in my mind. …_

_September 1, 1995_

_I saw Hermione Granger getting on the Hogwarts Express. My father nearly noticed how I watched her and her stupid friends laughing as they boarded the train, almost tripping over each other in their giddiness. Fortunately, my mother distracted him with something long enough for me to gain composure. …_

_April 1, 1996_

_We finally caught the damned Dumbledore's Army. Of course, Hermione Granger was with them. I touched her during the raid—grabbed her wand, and held her back as she tried to escape. Her body is warm, and her hair smells like peonies and tulips. It's sinful, for such wild hair to smell so… inviting. …_

_June 20, 1996_

_There was a battle in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. Aunt Bellatrix killed Potter's whatever-Sirius-was-to-him. I heard that Hermione Granger was there. I don't understand why she has to keep putting herself in danger. She's going to end up getting herself killed. …_

_July 3, 1996_

_I've been branded. I've taken the Mark. It doesn't burn anymore—but the pain I'd felt as it was branded onto me was one of the worst pains I've ever felt. Nearly as painful as the realization that this mark meant Hermione Granger is genuinely no longer safe. I am one of them, and I am inside the castle walls. It's only a matter of time until I'm forced to hurt her. And I don't know if I can. …_

Draco stopped reading then, knowing that any entry about Hermione after that point would be more shameless pining about her safety. That, and records of his failed attempts to make up for his father's actions. He didn't want to read the entry from _That_ _Day_ in March of 1998. The night that he stood by like an idiot while his aunt tortured the girl that he—

He sighed heavily as he closed the journal, rubbing at his temples. His feelings for Hermione Granger were always complicated. He hated everything about her, but those very things that he hated were what made her special. And, deep down, he always knew that to be true. 

His father taught Draco that she was beneath him, that she was less-than. She was dirt, and an example of everything that was wrong with Wizarding society, and Hogwarts. His father had wanted him to attend Durmstrang, but Draco had never gotten a satisfactory answer as to why he'd been sent to Hogwarts. He'd always assumed it had been his mother's doing. 

He hated the way that Hermione always knew the answer to every question that was asked. She picked up a wand with as much ease as he did, and he'd had years of practice on her. He rivaled her in every single class, but she was continually distracting him and causing him to make silly mistakes. He'd never admit that to his father, so he settled for blaming their professors. In truth, Hermione's unruly hair and smoldering eyes had been the death of his hopes at earning the highest marks possible. 

Not that he'd done terribly in school. But he could have done better. 

Hermione Granger just didn't make any rational sense. She bent and broke every idea that he'd been told about Muggle-borns. She wasn't ugly or incapable—she was beautiful and a better witch than he was a wizard. 

Draco considered all of the ways that he'd tried to rid her from his mind. In his younger years, he'd settled for shagging any witch he could get his hands on. Pansy was the first rung on a ladder that only reinforced the idea that Hermione _fucking_ Granger was the only witch his teenage brain wanted, and the only one that he couldn't have. 

Wizards, especially those of pure blood, weren't to busy themselves with foolish, romantic troubles. His parents were married out of necessity—to keep the Malfoy line as pure as possible. He'd been born with the hopes that he would help carry on that legacy, and that he would help restore pureblood ideals in society. And all he'd done was fall for a witch of Muggle birth. 

As he aged and the war became inevitable, Bellatrix began to teach him how to lock his dangerous thoughts away. Hermione had been the first one he'd tried to push to the far corners of his mind. He tucked her away as thoroughly as possible, covering her with every other thought and idea that he'd ever had. He had to protect her in any way possible. 

Then she was on the floor of his drawing-room, and the same aunt was carving _that_ word into her arm. Her body contorted in pain as Bellatrix screamed, "Crucio!" in one of the most demented tones he'd ever heard. She'd taken the pleasure out of watching Hermione scream out in pain. Draco had nearly jumped between them more than a few times—the minutes felt like years as her screams filled up the room. They'd pulled at the locks in his mind, yanking them apart as they consisted of paper. 

Draco gathered the journals and started to head back toward the conservatory. He hated how she made him feel, but every time he laid eyes on her, he felt electric. He got a thrill out of how she constantly challenged him, didn't take his shit for anything other than what it was: shit. It was as if she knew that every comment he made in her direction was to serve one purpose: make her feel pain. 

Because if she felt pain, she'd hate him. And if she hated him, she'd stay as far away from him as possible. 

"May can take those for you, sir!" May appeared at his feet suddenly, her big eyes staring up at him with what seemed to be adoration. Her mood had changed with the absence of his father. She smiled more and was willing to do things without being asked. She enjoyed being with them, and the weekly allowance Narcissa had begun slipping her. 

"Thanks, May," Draco offered her a smile and handed the books over. He wasn't sure how she was able to hold them all—the stack was taller than she was. But, somehow, she managed, just as she always did. 

"Dinner will be ready in about an hour, sir," May teetered dangerously to the left, and Draco kept her from falling. "Will you be joining Mistress?"

"Not tonight," Draco straightened himself out. "I'll be having dinner separately if that's alright."

"Whatever you wish, sir," she said simply, before disappearing in a small puff of magic. 

Draco sat down at one of the tables, breathing heavily. He wished that the scent of the flowers could brighten up everything inside him that was already dead or dying. He wondered how he'd gotten to this point in his life. What decisions had he made that led him to sit down on this bench in his new home, feeling as if he'd lost everything again?

_All of them. Every last decision lead to this moment._

He was beginning to feel trapped, but he didn't have the energy to go anywhere. He knew that he had other, worldly things to worry about. Such as getting the Ministry off his back and finding a blasted _job_. He had an inheritance to manage, and a Manor to keep up. He was sure his mom would begin bugging him about finding a wife and children and all of that nonsense. He knew she wouldn't truly start to get worried until he was at least twenty-two—the age his parents were when they finally got married. But, they'd also been together since their Hogwarts days. The King and Queen of Slytherin House. Narcissa had hoped that that would become he and Pansy, but alas. Some things don't work out the way that people want them to. 

Nothing ever seemed to work out the way that Draco wanted. 

He had no future, no romantic prospects. And he had feelings for a witch that he'd spent years trying to hate. A witch that he'd successfully made hate him. And now, they were stuck together for an hour every week for a finite amount of time. 

He thought back to his thoughts on the day of his last meeting with the judge when he'd finally gotten rid of Cleveland. 

_Could he make her like him? Did he want her to like him? Why did he even care?_

His power-hungry father's actions, and the Dark Mark, had taken every shred of stability and hope of a future from his life. His reality had been stolen and turned from relative childhood bliss to an angry mess of mistakes and misunderstandings. What used to be simple, black and white, was now smudged grey and smeared all over the walls of his brain. He felt lost. And he had no one to guide him. 

The only real Truth was that Hermione Granger had found a way out of his mind's furthest recesses. She'd snuck back to the front of his brain, right where his head was hurting, and she'd nestled herself into his temples. And he didn't think she'd be leaving any time soon. 

In a desperate plea for help, Draco scribbled a quick owl to Pansy. Moments later, she appeared in his bedroom, stepping out of the fireplace with all the grace of a pureblood aristocrat. Draco wondered if he still carried himself that way; if the same air of dignity continued to swirl about his robes. He felt undignified and like proper trash. 

"What's going on?" She asked, looking around the room. Her eyes softened when she saw him sitting in the armchair by the window, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hands. "Draco! Are you alright?"

Draco could barely lift his eyes to look at her. His stomach felt like it was on fire, but whether it was from his guilt or the whiskey, Draco wasn't sure. His mind could only focus on one thing. 

"I've done so many terrible things, Pansy," Draco's voice caught in his throat. He wanted to cry, but he had to remain composed. He couldn't let himself fall apart. He'd wished to have Pansy there to keep him from coming undone. "I've said so many awful things. And some of them I can't even remember."

"What are you talking about?" Pansy came to him the way a mother runs to her crying child's side. She brushed his hair from his face and tried to find his eyes, but he kept them locked on the whiskey bottle in his hand. 

"I'm evil, Pansy," Draco gripped the armrest on the chair with his free hand, his hands shaking. She had to wrestle the bottle from his other hand. "I've destroyed people. And I'm so evil that I don't even remember half of the things I've done."

"Draco, I think you need to stop drinking," Pansy wiped a tear from his face. He'd begun to cry without realizing it. "It's only going to make the bad thoughts worse. Remember?"

Draco choked on air, letting out what sounded like the cry of a wounded animal. He stomped his foot on the ground and gripped at the chair harder, wanting something to rip apart beneath his touch. He wanted to tear the chair to pieces. 

"Think of all the fucked up things I said during school." He turned to look at her then, his steel-grey eyes locking onto her emerald green ones. She held a hand to her chest, looking at him as if he was a broken teacup. He felt like a broken teacup. "You can't. You know that I said some downright, awful things. Things that our classmates probably remember to this day. And I thought so little of them that those words don't even cross my mind. They can't even cross my mind because there are so many of them. I can't remember all the awful things I've done, only the big ones. The ones that got me caught. Cursing Katie Bell on accident. The Death Eaters getting into Hogwarts. Hermione's torture."

"You can't blame yourself for anything that happened after His return, Draco," Pansy dropped in between his knees, her hands on either side of his face. "Do you understand? He would have killed you."

"And I should have let him!" Draco screamed then, feeling more helpless than he had the night the Death Eaters stormed Hogwarts. He'd heard Hermione's screams as charms and curses reverberated off the castle walls. She'd nearly died inches from him, and he'd stood there and done nothing. 

And he'd called her that word. So many times. Said so many awful things to her friends, threatened them with torture and even death. He'd nearly caused all of their deaths. And he had caused the deaths of every single student at Hogwarts that died during the Battle. It was all his fault. 

"She remembers, Pansy," Draco's lungs spasmed in his chest, fighting for air as he struggled to breathe. "She looks at me, and she sees the horrible things I've done. She hasn't forgotten."

"Draco, I need you to focus on me," Pansy's eyes were begging. "Please? Can you focus on me for just one moment?"

Draco tried his best to focus on her, to bring Pansy's image out of the blur and into focus. She brushed his cheekbone with her thumb, trying to soothe him with contact. She dropped a hand down to his upper-arm and began rubbing up and down, trying to bring him back to the moment. 

"None of this is your fault, Draco. Shh—don't interrupt me. She would have done the same. The war is still fresh, and even mental wounds take time to heal. She will come around, Draco. If she's worthy of even half of you, she will begin to see you how we see you."

Pansy pulled Draco up from the chair and helped him to bed. He knew that she was going to try and leave—she rarely stayed anymore—but he couldn't stand the thought of being alone. 

"Pans," he reached out a hand to grab hers. "Please don't leave. At least wait until I'm asleep."

Pansy sighed but listened, sliding into bed beside him. She played with his hair and whispered lullabies into his ears. Draco didn't know how long it took for the crying to stop or how many hours passed until he fell asleep. 

He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, sitting there across from him. When her eyes were on her notes, she was free of any judgment or malice. But when she looked at him, it was as if she was staring at a monster. 

Draco didn't want to be a monster. But, he didn't want to be a hero, either. He wanted to be himself—to be a man who did what was right, who was fiercely loyal to his friends, and who was resourceful. He knew that he was smart and that there was good inside of him somewhere. There had to be. 

Or else, he indeed was just evil. But, if he was evil, would he be able to cry over someone like Hermione Granger? Would he be able to feel what he was feeling: guilty? Or was he just a drunken fool?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do feel bad for draco; although i do agree with pansy, he should probably put the firewhiskey away and forgive himself. will he finally come to terms with his past actions, or is draco going to keep wallowing in self-pity? only time will tell ;)


	6. SONNET 6: SOME LOVERS SPEAK, WHEN THEY THEIR MUSES ENTERTAIN

SONNET 6

_Some lovers speak, when they their Muses entertain,  
Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires,  
Of force of heavenly beams, infusing hellish pain,  
Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms and freezing fires.  
Someone his song in Jove, and Jove’s strange tales, attires,  
Broidered with bulls and swans, powdered with golden rain;  
Another, humbler, wit to shepherd’s pipe retires,  
Yet hiding royal blood full oft in rural vein.  
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest style affords,  
While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his words,  
His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move.  
I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they,  
But think that all the map of my state I display,  
When trembling voice brings forth that I do Stella love._

* * *

Tuesday morning greeted Draco with sheets of rain pouring from the sky. He laid nestled in his satin sheets, staring at the canopy above his bed, trying to find the will to stand up. His room had grown muggy from the humidity outside, and sweat clung to his skin in the most uncomfortable way. 

He dropped his left arm to the bed and let his eyes wander to the Dark Mark, silent and beginning to fade around the edges. He wondered if it would ever fade away completely, allowing him to be free of that awful night and the things he did the year after. If his body could forget, maybe his mind could too. 

Slowly, he sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. His head was pounding, but not because he was hungover. He was sure he'd been having a nightmare. Not something terrible enough to remember, but shocking enough to make him sweat and pressure to build behind his eyes. 

Draco was growing tired of having to wake up every day and put a smile on his face. He had to do it for everyone—his mother, his friends, and even May. After the war, she was the only house-elf that had followed himself and his mother to the new Manor. He supposed she knew him better than anyone and would provide advice if only she knew he would welcome it with open arms. No one else was telling him anything helpful.

The bathroom was cold, and the tile floor sending chills up his spine. He tried to ignore himself as he passed the mirror and headed straight for the shower. He didn't want to know what he looked like, as Draco was positive he appeared a right mess. After his shower, he quickly pulled on his shirt and pants, making his way barefoot down the stairs. The smell of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and he made his way toward the scent. May already had a cup of coffee sitting on the counter, waiting for him.

"I was hoping you'd come down for breakfast, Sir," she said as she scuttled around him at blazing speed. "Mistress thinks you should eat more."

"And what do you think?"

The question stopped the house-elf dead in her tracks. May almost teetered over, barely balancing two pans and a pot filled with food. She looked at Draco for a few seconds, clearly pondering if his question was genuine or rhetorical. 

"May thinks you could use breakfast, sir," she said slowly and deliberately. "But, May also thinks that you should do what you please."

 _Fair enough_ , Draco thought to himself. He picked up the coffee—perfectly made, with three spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk. Just enough to take the bitter edge off the coffee and make it palatable enough to drink. 

"Where's mother?" he asked, blowing on the coffee to cool it off. He sipped it gingerly. Still too warm. 

"She's in the library," May stated, returning to cooking breakfast. She sure could move quickly. "Mistress usually comes for breakfast at nine."

The clock on the kitchen wall read 8:50 am. Draco was up early. Far too early for his liking. But, alas, he'd already showered and committed to starting his day. 

Draco and his mother took up their seats at the dining table, their coffee and tea piping hot. Narcissa was wearing a bright pink summer dress—something she would never have worn when his father was still home. Draco considered adding some color to his wardrobe. Maybe he'd spend a day shopping with his mother—bonding and all that. 

"You're a sight for sore eyes," his mother smiled warmly at him. "I was beginning to forget what my favorite son looked like."

"I'm your only son," Draco rolled his eyes, but a smile bloomed on his face. In the absence of his father, Narcissa had grown only warmer. Warmer than Draco imagined she could be. 

"And thus, my favorite!" She smiled brightly back at him, no hint of tease in her eyes. Draco thought that maybe, just maybe, he and his mother would be okay. "You have your meeting tonight with Granger at five, right?"

"Yeah," Draco sighed heavily then, reaching for his coffee. He wished his headache would go away. 

"Are the meetings going poorly?" His mother asked. Breakfast appeared on their plates before them—a full English breakfast, Narcissa's favorite—and for a moment, Draco struggled to pick up his fork and knife. 

"Not poorly," Draco didn't know how to explain them to his mother without having to then explain everything else. "Just… you can tell Granger doesn't want to be there. And she's rude to me. Honestly. If this is just some sort of torture tactic, it's working."

His mother ate her breakfast slowly, careful to maintain aristocratic grace even in the privacy of her own home. Her eyes sparkled as she looked him over. He couldn't feel her trying to tap into his thoughts, but then again, she was his mother. She knew him better than at least a few people. To her, his thoughts were written clear as the print in the _Daily_ _Prophet_ all over his face. 

"She's just scared, dear," Narcissa replied. Her voice was light and smooth as if she was trying not to spook him. "Remember what happened; what she's experienced. Not that you haven't been through anything," she cut him off when he tried to interrupt, "but a member of your family tortured her. She stood up for you at your trial. And she didn't quit her job to get away from you. Give her some time, Draco."

Draco sighed and nodded in agreement. And then he realized what she said. 

"I'm sorry," he dropped his fork not-so-gracefully onto the table. "Give her time for what?"

More sparkles appeared in his mother's eyes. They were playful, an emotion he hadn't seen there for many years. He hadn't seen her eyes light up like that since he was a boy. 

"To relax around you, my dear," she said simply. "She'll come around."

Draco wondered if his mother knew. But, there was no possible way for her to know. Was there? Unless. No. His mother wouldn't go through his journals when he wasn't home. That would be absurd. A man's privacy was one of the few things that pureblood aristocracy respected, and even the most nosy of women didn't snoop in their husband's, or son's, things. 

But, if she did go through his things, well. Draco wasn't going to help her with the plants then. Tit-for-tat if you will. No one could know of his complicated feelings for Hermione Granger, and how deeply attached to them he had grown. It would be the end of Draco Malfoy. 

"I'm thinking that on Thursday, I'm going to do some work in the conservatory," Narcissa continued. "Would you like to help me?"

Was she reading his thoughts?

"I would love to," Draco forced a smile back onto his face, trying to force Hermione Granger out of his thoughts for just a few, simple moments. His mother smiled affectionately then, and they ate the rest of their breakfast in relative silence. He was appreciative that she didn't try to press him further on the subject. As the clock turned ever closer to 5 pm, he counted down the minutes until he'd either be hexed or hex someone else. 

* * *

Once again, Hermione had beaten him to the Leaky Cauldron. But, instead of waiting outside like a dunce, Draco made his way to the table. He found her in much the same fashion as he had the previous week: buried in piles of notes with sheets of paper and books spread across the table as if it was the Hogwarts library.

"Working on anything interesting?" he asked as he sat down. He thought he would try his hand at small talk, getting to know her and that kind of thing. Not that he cared about what she was scribbling down. He would never admit that, even to himself. 

Hermione jumped in her seat, her hand reaching up to clutch at her heart. Her eyes closed briefly and then opened back up, turning as icy as his own. She began to make space on the table as a wizard arrived and dropped off their drinks. She'd gotten him a double-shot on ice this time. 

"No," she said simply, reaching for her Butterbeer. Draco nodded to himself and sat back in his bench, extending his legs to parallel hers. Clearly, she wasn't one for friendly conversation. But that was just fine. He'd answer her questions and be done with it if that was what she wanted. 

Hermione was wearing a dress that day. It was a shade of blue somewhere between royal and navy and had white polka dots on it so small that you would easily miss them if you weren't taking your time in looking Hermione over. The dress was a modified suit jacket with a barely-professional V-cut, cinched just above the waist with a golden belt. Even though she was sitting, he could tell the dress came to just above her knees. She'd kicked off her black heels, and they sat beside her on the bench. 

A stray collection of curls had fallen from the bun that sat near the top of her head. Hermione reached up to tuck them back behind her ear, and Draco thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He found himself wishing that he would be allowed to do that—touch her hair and tuck it gingerly back into place, letting his fingers trail across her jaw as he'd pull his hand away. 

Draco might not have known what Hermione wanted, but he knew what he wanted: the witch who had consumed nearly all of his thoughts since he was a teenager. 

"I'm sorry I raised my voice at you last week," he decided to go for an apology, perhaps she would respond better. Hermione's eyes snapped up at the words I'm sorry as if she hadn't known they were in his vocabulary. "I'm under a lot of pressure right now. And it was unfair for me to get angry with you."

He hoped his voice didn't sound as shaky as his throat felt. Draco knew he should apologize for more things, but he also knew that he wouldn't stop once he started. And the last thing he wanted to do was word-vomit apologies at Hermione until one of them began to cry or left. Or he admitted to more dangerous things, such as the fact that her once again berry-toned lips made him want to throw himself at her feet. 

She pursed her lips and then nodded, reaching into her back for a file and a notebook. 

"I should also apologize," the word nearly didn't make it past her lips, "for the way that I spoke to you. It wasn't professional."

 _Professional_. Who gave a rat's ass about being professional when they weren't even at work anymore? But, then again, this was her job. She was babysitting him. 

"What did you do this week?" Hermione asked him, her quill ready to notate his every word. 

"I spent most of my time at home," Draco responded honestly. "I ran into Blaise and Pansy after our meeting last week, made a half-hearted promise at hanging out with them."

"But, you didn't?"

Draco thought about Pansy in his bedroom, playing with his hair until he fell asleep. Perhaps it was because they'd been such close friends before they'd slept with each other, but their breakup had been more than amicable. It was as if an enormous weight had lifted off both of their shoulders. And then they were free to be friends; friends who could be there for each other when no one else could. 

"No," Draco shook his head. He drummed his fingers on the table. "I decided not to."

"Why not?"

_I was too busy thinking about you. Getting piss-drunk and crying myself to sleep in my ex-girlfriend's arms._

"Wasn't feeling up to it," he shrugged. Hermione stared at him as if she didn't believe him. She was picking apart his face, searching for any sign of a lie. The joke was on her. He had everything locked up as tightly as possible. Draco had spent nearly five minutes before leaving his home, ensuring that all of his mental locks were securely in place. 

"What do you do when you're at home?"

"I read, mostly," Draco half-lied. He thought about his journals tucked away in one of his wardrobes. "We have a conservatory at the back of the Manor, and I enjoy spending time there. If I'm not sitting there reading, I'm on my broom or in the apple grove."

Hermione scribbled down his words. He wondered if she copied him verbatim, or simply took down bullet points. He didn't know which would be worse: her having his every word transcribed forever, or merely dumbing down his insights into insignificant sentence fragments. 

"So, all you did this week was… sit around at home?"

"What?" Draco felt agitation stirring up in his gut. He shifted in his seat and sat up straight, arms crossed. "My mother and I moved to a new residence shortly after the war was over. I believe we moved about two months after my father shipped off to Azkaban." Hermione winced when he mentioned his father. "We're still making it our own."

Hermione nodded slowly, taking a sip of her drink. He mimicked her actions. Draco had forgotten about the firewhiskey. The realization that it was there made him feel a bit bolder; he could do this with a little help. 

"Who do you spend most of your time with?"

"My mother," Draco nearly blushed at the admission. "And our house-elf May. I see them every day. Uh, also Blaise and Pansy. Every once in a while, I see the Greengrasses. Theodore Nott is my closest friend."

"But you didn't see him this week?"

Why was she being so fucking nosy? Draco was sure that she wasn't supposed to dig this far. He said he'd stayed at home, and he had. Why did he have to defend himself, if he'd done what the Ministry wanted? He'd stayed out of everyone's way, just as they told him to. 

That was part of Hermione's problem. She was continually sticking her nose where it didn't belong, searching for information under the justification that she simply wanted to know. But, she didn't just want to know. She tried to take that information and have you arrested, or worse. She couldn't just be conversational and let other people be. She was the judge and jury of what she deemed correct, despite not knowing most people that she judged. 

"No," Draco cleared his throat and then finished his drink. He couldn't tell her that he'd refused to hang out with Theodore when an owl from his friend arrived, asking if he'd slept with the Golden Girl yet. "He's been… busy. After all, he's the only remaining member of his family. His mother died when he was young, and his father died in the war. He has an estate and wills and other things to worry about."

Hermione's eyes softened for a moment. He could see her realizing that she wasn't the only one who'd lost people she cared about during the war—they all had. Draco found himself thinking about Crabbe and the fiendfyre. He'd locked that memory away too. 

Part of Draco wanted her to feel bad—to feel sympathetic for them. She'd spent years vilifying them, hating them. And they'd suffered just as much as she had. But, another part of Draco found himself wanting to reach across the table and offer her his hand. She'd lost people too. Countless people. Because of his actions. 

Hermione cleared her throat and blinked her eyes a few times to regain her focus and composure. Draco simply took a breath and returned to his more relaxed, stretched out position. He couldn't get too close to her.

"Do you have any upcoming events or plans?" Hermione asked. Draco shrugged. 

"I think I'm going to help my mother with the conservatory later this week," he replied. "The peonies and tulips she planted earlier this summer are nearing the end of their blooming cycle, so we'll replace them with something else. She has a greenhouse toward the back of the property, where she keeps her out-of-season plants. She hates starting from scratch, so the move was difficult for her."

"I didn't know your mother enjoyed gardening so much."

The corners of Draco's lips tilted up in a small smile. If only Hermione knew the things that his mother loved. Flowers and gardening were only the beginning of it. His mother was a source of pride for him. Say what you would about his father, it was probably right. But his mother? His mother was nothing but light in a society filled with darkness. 

"She loves it," he said. "Herbology was her favorite class in school. She has a green thumb, that's for sure. Admittedly, I haven't spent much time with her in the gardens. Father thought it was silly for a man to be involved with such things. He didn't even really like my mother doing it herself. Thought they might as well just hire someone to do it since we had the money."

"Are you guys happier without your father around?"

It felt like Hermione had reached across the table and slapped him. How dare she suggest something like that? On the surface, it seemed to be a true statement. They had more freedom, and his mother could do things like wearing pink dresses and gardening at her leisure. But, her husband, his father, was missing. And he'd been the center of their family since their marriage. His grandparents on both sides had been dead for years, leaving only himself and his mother in England. She knew that he had no desire to move to France, so she'd stayed for him. 

"I wouldn't say that," he offered as his only response. Hermione cocked her head to the side and looked as if she was going to ask him to explain what he meant. Draco didn't know what his face looked like, but whatever his expression was kept Hermione from prying. 

"I don't mean to be… _intrusive_ ," Hermione said slowly. "I'm only asking because—"

"You have to."

"What happened to not cutting each other off?"

"What happened to you asking me _professional_ questions?"

Draco hadn't realized that his heart rate had gone up, or that his face was pulling itself into a sneer, until he was standing from the table. 

"Draco, I didn't mean—"

"It's Malfoy," he said simply, before turning and making his way toward the door. 

* * *

Theodore and Blaise met him at their usual pub, tucked away in a not-so-popular section of Wizarding London. They'd begun to frequent the location shortly after the war had started to fade from people's minds. Drinking at home, Theodore always said, was a sign of a problem. But, drinking in public? That was a sign of a good time.

He was frustrated and angry. If he wasn't in a public space, he might have started throwing things. He was also disappointed in himself. He'd walked out of a Ministry-ordered probationary meeting—with the _one_ witch who would have him behind bars as soon as she could. 

"Is this the something stupid?" Draco heard himself asking as he reached for his fifth? _Sixth?_ Shot of the evening. 

Blaise's expression was neutral, while Theodore's looked as if he was watching the circus. Draco wasn't sure which of his friends he truly liked more. Theodore made a joke out of everything, while Blaise was severe and composed. He supposed that was why he'd owled them both. It was like having the metaphorical angel and devil sitting on his shoulder.

"I'm afraid not, mate," Blaise said, his drink still half-full. Theodore was matching him shot for shot, his eyes alight with mischief. "It was stupid, definitely, but I still think you'll manage to fuck up worse."

"That should bring you comfort!" Theodore said, a smile wide on his face. He clapped Draco on the back with enough force to nearly knock him off his seat. "You're not at your lowest point yet!"

"Fuck off, Theo," Draco rubbed at his temples. "Why am I like this?"

"Because you're in love!"

"Theo. Shut. The. Fuck. Up." Blaise accentuated each word as if it was a separate sentence. Draco was thankful for Blaise, taking over, making sure Theodore didn't push Draco to the point of punching him in the face. Theodore held his hands up in surrender, but the smile didn't leave his face. 

"I just don't understand her. Or this blasted fake program that Judge made up. I don't even know if this is legal. Is it?"

Blaise shrugged. "I don't work for the Wizenmagot. I'm just a lowly editor for the _Daily Prophet_. I'm the reason Skeeter's stories are even readable. Honestly, it's amazing that woman has made it this far in journalism."

Sometimes he hated his friends. Correction, he hated them together. They talked over him and got pulled into useless arguing when Draco's life fell apart right in front of their eyes. But, when he was alone with any one of them, they knew what kind of support he needed. Pansy was his go-to for emotional comfort. Her presence could bring him back to the moment within seconds; she knew when and how he'd want to be touched; she knew not to yell. 

Blaise was great for common sense thinking. He seemed to have less emotional range than a rock, which meant that he made his decisions based on logic alone. Blaise was also very good at predicting outcomes. Not that he could see into the future or anything insane, but Blaise was a people watcher. He sat back, observed, and knew what decisions those around him would make. And what consequences those actions would have.

"She isn't a _journalist_ ," Theodore laughed. Draco agreed, so he let him continue. "She's a _gossip_ _columnist_. Two different things."

And then there was Theodore.

"Well, I get paid well enough that I don't care what it is." Blaise crossed his arms over his chest, sticking his nose up.

_Why were his friends such idiots?_

Draco dropped his face into his hands. He was completely and utterly screwed. He was going to be sent to Azkaban, not for committing any real crime, but because he walked out on a bullshit meeting with a witch that was as beautiful as she was frustrating.

Blaise left shortly after that, leaving Draco and Theodore to their own devices. Draco was sitting at the bar with his entire heart on his sleeve, taking up as much space as the Dark Mark did on his arm. He felt powerless. 

Theodore put an arm around Draco's shoulder, his expression serious for the first time in what seemed like years. Draco could barely bring his eyes up to meet his friend's face. He wanted to melt into the bar top and stop existing. He wondered how much trouble he would get into if he left the country and disappeared. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He'd simply live out the rest of his days in a cave somewhere, relying on the generosity of kind shepherds for food. Probably somewhere in Scotland. Not that he'd spent an excessive amount of time thinking about it. 

"I know that things seem… _bleak_ right now," Theodore started, his tone earnest. "But, things will turn around, mate. Don't listen to Blaise. You know him. Always the skeptic."

Blaise wasn't the problem, Hermione was. And she wasn't even a problem. Hermione was everything that the ancient Greeks wrote about in the stories of their goddesses. She was the muse that poets could never convince to fall in love. Hermione was steadfast and sure of herself in a world that changed by the second. She was like the fucking ocean, beautiful but dangerous, willing to take a sailor's life just as soon as she would save it. 

"She's all I think about, Theo," Draco groaned at the admission. His friends had been picking on his complicated feelings about her for years without Draco offering any real admission. But, they were more than a stupid infatuation. She consumed him. "She's frustrating. She hates me."

"She has every right to," It wasn't like Theodore to make valid points. Draco had to center himself before Theodore's words settled in his chest. For once, he was speaking the truth. "You spent years making her life hell. She doesn't know what we know—that you push away every single person that you care about. She doesn't know how hard this has all been on you."

_Guilt._

It'd been hard on her too. And Draco hadn't helped. 

"I don't think I'll ever be able to fix it," Draco fought the urge to smash the glass beside his hands on the table. "And it eats me apart every single day."

"Things take time, Draco," Theodore reached for his last shot of the evening. "Would you settle for a professional relationship with her? Or is this all or nothing for you?"

Draco didn't respond because the answer was more painful than the question. _All or nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, who thinks that theodore & pansy have been owling about draco behind his back??? and who thinks blaise needs a reality check? i think yes to both
> 
> & a big thank you to everyone who has been reading this story and showing it so much love--your words bring me so much joy it's indescribable


	7. SONNET 7: WHEN NATURE MADE HER CHIEF WORK, STELLA'S EYES

SONNET 7

_When Nature made her chief work, Stella’s eyes,_  
_In color black why wrapped she beams so bright?_  
_Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,_  
_Frame daintiest luster mixed of shades and light?_  
_Or did she else that sober hue devise_  
_In object best to knit and strength our sight,_  
_Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise,_  
_They, sun-like, should more dazzle than delight?_  
_Or would she her miraculous power show,_  
_That, whereas black seems beauty’s contrary,_  
_She even in black doth make all beauties flow?_  
_Both so, and thus: she, minding Love should be_  
_Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed_  
_To honor all their deaths, who for her bleed._

* * *

_ ROMANCE OR PUNISHMENT: DRACO MALFOY RESURFACED _

_ BY RITA SKEETER  _

_ Everyone knows him as the handsome, mysterious boy who made all the wrong choices. After his family had fallen from grace, and his father sent to Azkaban, Draco Malfoy and his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, stepped back from the public eye. Months later, his mother resurfaced, in all her aristocratic glory, traveling through France and looking ever the image of perfection.  _

_ But, Mr. Malfoy had remained in the shadows. It was rumored that he was on year-long probation for crimes against the Wizarding world—such as the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the poisoning of fellow student Katie Bell; and an assortment of other, undisclosed, crimes.  _

_ He made his first public appearance in over a year last week, spotted at the Leaky Cauldron with no other than Hermione Granger, one of his classmates who succeeded in killing the Dark Lord. It was rumored that, while in school, the two were less than friends. Fellow students remember when Mr. Malfoy called Ms. Granger an assortment of names, attempted to get her in trouble and even aided in her torture during the war.  _

_ How exactly is it that these two ended up together in the Leaky Cauldron on a Tuesday night? Is it a secret romance born from years of repressed sexual tension? Or has the Ministry chosen to keep a close, attractive eye on Wizarding London's most eligible bachelor?  _

_ More on page 7. _

Draco stared at the copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ that his mother held in her hands as she sipped her morning tea. His mother was currently reading page seven. He'd joined her in the conservatory to help her with…  _ whatever one does with plants _ … and had stopped dead in his tracks in the entryway. 

Taking up most of the front page was a picture of Draco and Hermione. He was leaned forward on the table, their faces closer together than he'd remembered them being. She was wearing that damned blouse, looking every inch as delicious as the olives that shade of green mimicked. For a moment, he found himself wishing that the pictures were printed in color—the berry tone to her lips looked dull in black and white. He shook the thought from his mind, reminding himself that he was angry that the piece had been published. And Blaise had helped edit it. 

"I'm surprised it took her this long to write a piece on it," Narcissa said, her tone light. "I thought for sure last Wednesday I was going to wake up to something like this. She's lost her edge."

"You shouldn't be reading that trash," Draco grumbled. His mother chuckled and set down the paper. She waved her hand over it, and it disappeared from view. 

"All gone," she said, smiling warmly at him. "Come, have a seat and join me."

"I thought we were going to switch out the plants today," Draco said, but did as she asked. 

"We are," Narcissa smiled at him. "But, I wanted to tell you a story first."

Draco snorted before he could stop himself. His mother narrowed her eyes and playfully swatted at him across the table. 

"May?" The house-elf appeared in seconds. "Bring Draco some tea, will you?"

"Of course, Mistress!" May disappeared with a  _ pop! _ and in an instant, a cup of tea appeared in front of Draco. He wished for a moment that it was coffee, but tea would have to do. Apparently, it was storytime. 

"Have you heard the Persian myth of Zal and Rudabeh?" Narcissa asked. Draco tried scanning his memory for any mention of the myth but was coming up blank. He much preferred the Greek and Roman myth's recounted in Ovid's  _ Metamorphosis _ . Not that he was suggesting other cultures didn't produce legends worth reading. He'd just never picked one of them up and given it a read. 

"I don't think so," Draco said, taking a sip of his tea. Jasmine. One of his favorites. 

"It's a love story," Narcissa said. Draco nearly choked on his tea. He cleared his throat as he set the teacup down, avoiding his mother's eyes. "You see, Zal was the son of a great Persian warrior. When he was born, his father abandoned him in the mountains. He was taken in by a bird closely related to the phoenix. She raised him as her own, making sure that he grew up well enough to handle himself. His father ended up hearing that he was still alive and ran to find him."

Wasn't that what all fathers did? Treated their sons like trash and tossed them aside until they were too old to handle their own? It seemed that Draco and Zal had a lot in common. 

"What has this to do with love?" Draco leaned back in his seat. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him. It was a look that told him to shut up and listen.

"When the bird saw his father, she knew that it was time for Zal to leave. She gave him one of her feathers and instructed him to burn it should he ever need her help. She would appear to him immediately."

Draco made a second attempt at sipping his tea, fighting the urge to let his mind wander off. He felt as if he was a child, with his mother reading bedtime stories. First, a babysitter and then this? The world was turning mad. Where was the firewhiskey? Could he justify drinking this early to his mother?

"His father goes off to war, and Zal takes over the kingdom. So, he makes his rounds, has parties, and gets to know important people in each of his provinces. While traveling, he hears a story about a girl named Rudebah—a beautiful woman with dark, curly hair that reached her feet and long, breathtaking eyelashes."

_ Where are you going with this, mother? _ Draco eyed Narcissa carefully. Her expression was light and open—as if she was simply telling him a story with no ulterior motive. Malfoys and Blacks always had an incentive. That's why his parents' marriage had been so perfect. Two people keen on using one another for personal gain. 

"But, she was the daughter of an enemy to Zal's family. Zal secretly went to her window and climbed up to her room, where the two made love. She conceived a child, and the pair wanted to be married. His father turned to astrologers for answers, as he was worried about the pairing." 

Draco couldn't help but feel as if his mother was talking about him. But how could she be? She'd changed in the absence of his father, and it was more than wearing clothing in the color that she wanted or getting to garden instead of watching the house-elves do it. 

She used to meddle, but it was to-the-point. She didn't tell stories and toss knowing looks around as if they were flower petals. Narcissa believed that words, like spells, carried their unique kind of magic. That was why wandless magic was so challenging to accomplish. Words held power. 

"The astrologers told him that their child would conquer the world. The only one left to woo was Rudebah's father. Zal had to compete in a series of tests to prove his worth, and eventually, they were allowed to marry."

Of course, the dunce had to compete in a series of tests. Nothing in myths could ever be straight forward and simple. There was always the risk of death and love losing to hate. And why was every marriage in those myths dependant on the offspring of the union doing something impressive? Why couldn't they just have children and live peaceful lives? The entire thing was hogwash if you asked Draco. 

Narcissa picked up her teacup, holding it to her lips. She eyed him as she sipped, making sure that he was paying attention. Draco sat up in his seat, his left leg bouncing beneath the table. He was sure his left eye was twitching. 

"While giving birth, her labor became complicated. It was apparent that she and the baby would die. So, Zal burned the feather that he had carried with him all that time to save them both."

Draco thought that he and Zal sounded like complete opposites. He would have lost the feather, and he would have turned around the second he figured out that he had to fight for love. Love wasn't supposed to be a battle or a test; it was supposed to be pure. Wasn't it?

After all, his parents had never argued. Not that Draco could remember, at least. His father controlled the Ministry and the family vault, but Narcissa ran the home. As soon as Luscious stepped foot onto the property, he was at Narcissa's mercy.

"And why are you telling me this?" 

"Because you're my son, Draco," Narcissa reached out a hand. He took it, letting her rub his knuckles with her thumb. "I know you. Follow your heart, my sweet prince. If she's what you want, you'll have to fight for her. Don't get frustrated. If it's meant to be, it will happen in time."

"I don't know what you're—"

Narcissa shushed him, standing up from the table. 

"A mother knows her son," she said simply. Then, she clasped her hands together and let a beaming smile spread across her face. "Now. Let's get to work."

* * *

Draco and his mother spent their morning in the greenhouse. It was his first time stepping inside since they had taken up residence, and he was surprised to be surrounded by so many plants. Narcissa had charmed the greenhouse to be nearly three times the size that it appeared to be, and every available shelf and section of floor supported a myriad of pots and flower beds. She showed him all of the plants that she'd been growing since they'd moved in, telling him which ones they were getting ready to bring to the conservatory. 

"I think we'll go with the pink coneflowers, the Japanese water irises, and…" Narcissa cocked her head to the side, her lips pursed. She tapped her chin with her finger. "And the magnolias. I do love pinks and purples. But the magnolias are getting so  _ big _ —I want to show them off. Perhaps we should host a dinner here soon? We haven't hosted a dinner party since the war."

"I think the girls would love it," Draco said, thinking about Pansy and Daphne. And Astoria, although he hadn't heard much about her during the previous months. She had found herself a boyfriend to travel Europe with and hadn't sent anyone an owl for weeks. And his mother preferred the Parkinsons anyway. "I don't know about the boys, though."

"You kids enjoy any excuse to get dressed up," Narcissa chuckled. Draco laughed. She wasn't wrong. 

He was walking back toward the conservatory, carrying one of the many pots of magnolias, when a large, white owl nearly smacked him in the face. The letter that it dropped at his feet bore the Ministry seal. Draco's throat ran dry. 

"What did you do?" Narcissa asked, raising an eyebrow at him as she approached. Draco set down the pot and picked up the letter. Hesitantly, he opened it. 

_ Mr. Draco Malfoy— _

_ I apologize for the informality of this letter, but I'm writing it quickly before anyone notices that I've disappeared from my desk. ~~You'd be surprised at how needed I am around here.~~ _

_ I also apologize for my actions during our last meeting. It was distasteful for me to have gone down that line of questioning. I did not tell Judge Barron that you left, as it was my fault that you did so.  _

_ I promise that our next meeting will be formal and professional. As long as you keep your tongue in check, I'll try to do the same with mine.  _

_ Signed,  _

_ Hermione Jean Granger _

_ PS: I'll have to tell him the next time you leave abruptly, so please try not to make it a habit. _

Draco hadn't noticed that Narcissa was reading over his shoulder until she let out a delightful giggle. And smacked him on the back of the head.

"Shame on you for leaving early, no matter what she asked you," she said as she picked up her pot filled with pink coneflowers. Draco stuffed the letter into his pocket, picking up the magnolias. Of course, Narcissa was going to continue to meddle.

"She asked about father," Draco responded. "It wasn't a bad question; it just rubbed me the wrong way."

"You have your father's temper, that's for sure," Narcissa waited for the conservatory's glass wall to melt away. "I'd like to say that you'll relax with age, but only time will tell."

Draco spent his afternoon being as helpful of a son as he could be to his mother. He let her teach him about the different kinds of soil that each plant needed, and how much water and sunlight. She told him about the types of infections that each plant was prone to, and which charms kept them the most healthy. He had no idea how his mother could handle storing  _ that much plant information _ in her mind and the countless other things she knew. But, that was his mother: one of the smartest witches he'd ever met. 

And then, there was Hermione, the smartest witch he'd ever met, and the letter. It sat heavy in his pocket, not once letting him forget that it was there. He didn't take it out and reread it until he was tucked away in his bedroom, the only light coming from the table beside his bed. 

She'd taken time out of her day to rush and send him an owl. And she hadn't turned him in for leaving the meeting on bad terms. He wondered if Hermione was playing some sort of game—luring him into some kind of trap. 

_ A beautiful woman with dark, curly hair that reached all the way to her feet, as well as long, breathtaking eyelashes. _

He thought of how the sun had landed on her face. The shadows had cast lovely shapes along her cheekbones. Her magnetic eyes focused on the pages spread out before her, scanning over notes that he would never see. Her eyes were a lovely shade of golden brown, and they pierced through everything she looked at. They stood out from her dark wavy hair, sunbeams shooting across dark evening clouds. She looked open and closed off at the same time—as if she had half of a wall built between her and the rest of the world.

Draco had always found himself drawn to the shape of her face and how she wasn't traditionally beautiful. She was her kind of light, like a flame—captivating, yet dangerous. Barely contained and ready to consume anything in its path. 

He thought it was a shame that she kept herself subdued. She'd lost some of her spark as she'd aged. In their youth, it was impossible to ignore her. She answered every question that professors asked with impeccable accuracy. She'd even undermined Harry to start Dumbledore's Army because she knew the prat wasn't smart or brave enough to do it on his own. She was the backbone of that Golden Trio and stood out wonderfully against the dull idiocy that was Potter and Weasley. But the Hermione that he met with on Tuesdays was subdued and hesitant. Even her insults seemed automatic and no longer carried the same punch that they did in her teens. Hermione had fallen into Potter and Weasley's shadow and spent her days as an administrator for the Wizenmagot. Where was the brilliant witch who was going to liberate the house-elves, and bring about change for Muggle-borns? 

Would it be possible for him to bring that spark back out of her? Could he show Hermione Granger just how powerful and radiant she could be? He could picture her in the dining room, engaging with Narcissa in a battle of wits that would have his mother dabbing tears of laughter from her cheeks. She'd give Theodore a run for his money with her sarcastic comments, and Blaise would appreciate her honesty. Pansy would grow to like her with time for Draco's sake. 

He groaned and stood from his bed, walking over to an accent table by the door to his bedroom. He poured himself a glass of firewhiskey and walked to the window, leaning against the frame as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. 

She'd kissed Weasley during the battle. He'd seen it with his own eyes—he'd been trying to find her, to warn her that the Dark Lord was approaching. He'd rounded the corner and saw her wrapped in his arms as Weasley fumbled to hold her properly. 

Had that been all it was? A kiss of misplaced passion in the middle of a battle? A kiss just in case they had both died? 

Or, was it more? Was it  _ love _ ? Did she love Weasley, the wizard who could barely keep his wand in check? Would Hermione Granger settle for such a lazy excuse for a wizard?

Draco's heart constricted in his chest, and he sipped at the firewhiskey with purpose. Could Weasley take care of her? Fulfill all of her needs? Take her to the places where she deserved to be?

He felt sick, but he couldn't stop thinking about Hermione going home to Weasley after their meetings. Perhaps they shared a flat somewhere, or maybe they had even bought a home. He was sure that Hermione did all cooking and cleaning, like some kind of ordinary housewife. There was no way that Weasley appreciated her; Weasley didn't know what he had. 

Draco couldn't help but picture the two of them curled up on a couch somewhere, Hermione's head on his chest. There was no way that she was touched softly, the way she deserved to be touched. Hermione was like something from another world; something to be protected. And, in a way, she was from another place, another time. She'd grown up so close but so far from where Draco had and experienced a multitude of things that Draco couldn't even imagine. 

It wasn't until a tear dropped into his whiskey that Draco realized he was crying. Not the kind of crying that shakes your ribs and makes you feel as if you'd pass out. No, this was the kind of crying that settled deep inside your throat. It was silent and passive, with no energy to change the circumstances, and barely enough energy to be sad. 

Draco knew that there had to be scores of other wizards who felt the same pain. He wondered if Viktor Krum was out there somewhere, brooding in the dark and wondering what the hell Weasley had that he didn't. He half-heartedly lifted his glass to the window, silently toasting all of the men who already had and definitely would continue to weep for Hermione Granger. 

He hated that he stood in solidarity with them—men like Krum and McLaggen—who had all the money, power, and blood-status necessary to secure any woman they wanted.

And yet, there they all stood—without Hermione Granger in their arms. Draco was in shitty company. And he'd been beaten out by Weasley, of all people. The thought made him sick to his stomach. 

Something fluttered under his door, and he saw it shoot across the floor in his peripheral vision. It landed at his feet. It was the picture of himself and Hermione that had been printed in the  _ Daily Prophet _ , cut from the newspaper. The magic had May written all over it. 

He bent down and lifted it, staring at it in the moonlight. It was the moment he had leaned forward while they were discussing Defense Against the Dark Arts. In his memory, she had been looking at her notes, but their eyes were locked on one another in the picture. Her expression was friendly and open as if they were having a perfectly reasonable discussion. As if they were familiar with one another. 

He set the picture down on the table on top of the letter she'd sent. He watched as they blinked over and over, and he was sure that he could make out her leaning closer. He was listening intently to what he was saying. It looked like they were in their own little world. 

But, Draco knew the truth. Their worlds existed miles apart from one another, separated by words and decisions that Draco wished that he could take back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, narcissa is one of my favorites & you can't tell me that she didn't flourish after the war was over & she could do whatever tf she wanted in peace!! 
> 
> & as always special thanks to everyone who reads this story <3 forever blown away by the support


	8. SONNET EIGHT: LOVE, BORN IN GREECE, OF LATE FLED FROM HIS NATIVE PLACE

SONNET 8

_Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place,_  
_Forced by a tedious proof that Turkish hardened heart_  
_Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart;_  
_And, pleased with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race._  
_But, finding these north climes too coldly him embrace,_  
_Not used to frozen clips, he strave to find some part_  
_Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art._  
_At length he perched himself in Stella’s joyful face,_  
_Whose fair skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on snow,_  
_Deceived the quaking boy, who thought, from so pure light_  
_Effects of lively heat must needs in nature grow:_  
_But she, most fair, most cold, made him thence take his flight_  
_To my close heart; where, while some firebrands he did lay,_  
_He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away._

* * *

Hermione had sent Draco another owl on the following Monday, asking to change the location of their next meeting. Two owls in less than one week—she was trying to drive him mad. He tried not to spend hours that Monday in his room, running his hands over the parchment. He traced the outlines of her handwriting, admiring the way that the script flew freely from her quill. Draco’s own handwriting was something of a mess. Sometimes it felt as if his brain was moving too fast for his hand to keep up, and it resulted in an illegible scribble that he was sure gave many of his professors at Hogwarts headaches. 

The handwriting in front of him, however, was small but clear. He noticed immediately that some of her letters were connected while others weren’t, and he wondered about her education pre-Hogwarts. Many Wizard children weren’t taught Muggle cursive, except when it came to their signature. A signature was one’s brand on the world—the mark that they left with their wallet and power, as they signed checks and voted for laws that would impact those around them.

Hermione’s was half-and-half, even to her signature. The letters, though small, were bold and distinguishable. She wrote with purpose, as if she knew with certainty which letter and word would come next. This letter was cordial and to the point, and once again there was no invitation for him to offer a response.

_Mr. Draco Malfoy—_

_In light of the recent publication in the Daily Prophet, I have seen it fit to change our meeting location. We will be meeting at a Muggle cafe a few blocks down from the Leaky Cauldron, called Aubaine. We will still meet at 5pm._

_Please remember to wear something that won’t send the Muggles running for the hills._

_Signed,_

_Hermione Jean Granger_

He thought it was remarkable that she always signed her full name. As if she was worried that she’d be mistaken for another Hermione Granger. But, then, he realized what her letter was truly implying. 

She didn’t want to be seen in public with him. She’d been offended by the piece in the _Daily_ _Prophet_ , and was seeking to put distance between them and the Wizarding world. She didn’t want the public thinking that they were anything more than enemies. 

Or, was it Weasley who’d gotten jealous of the idea that she could be seen in public with someone like Draco? Had he asked her to change locations, not wanting his partner seen in public with an ex-Death Eater? 

Was Draco overthinking?

He certainly was as he checked himself over again in the mirror, trying to make sure he was appropriately dressed. Many witches and wizards had taken to Muggle fashion when not in professional or educational attire, but outside of business suits the Malfoy men had maintained their preference for robes. 

Draco hadn’t known what kind of image he wanted to give off. After all, clothes were how one _truly_ made a first impression. No matter what people tried to say, how you look mattered. It dictated if people will shake your hand or spit in your face; if they strike up a conversation or cross to the other side of the street. 

He studied his appearance in the mirror, staring at the robes he’d transfigured to fit what he’d seen in the few Muggle fashion ads that Pansy had shown him. Pansy herself sat on his bed, her lips pursed and magazines spread across the sheets. 

The long-sleeve, burgundy shirt that he had on—Pansy had called it a Polo shirt—showed off his broad shoulders and clung to his arms as if it had been made specifically for his body. The black jeans were tight but not too constricting, just in case he had to make a run for it. Muggles still gave him a sense of unease, even if he wasn’t totally sold on the idea of them all being complete filth. The shoes, however, were giving him a hard time. 

“I don’t understand why I have to wear _boots_ ,” Draco brought his left foot up to the chair beside his bedroom window, to emphasize to Pansy how ridiculous they looked. 

“It’s called _fashion_ , Draco,” Pansy stood up and came over to him, fussing over his hair and the way that the shirt fell at his waist. “Something you know almost nothing about.”

Draco rolled his eyes but let her do as she pleased, hoping that she was making him look as Muggle as possible. He wasn’t quite sure what the differences were—if there were any at all. Hermione looked _normal_. You wouldn’t know she was a Muggle-born unless she told you. 

_Maybe that was the point? That they were the same?_

Draco had to focus. Hermione had included typed up instructions on how to get to the cafe once he exited the Leaky Cauldron. He was to make a right and go about two blocks then make a left, and the cafe would be two shops down to the left. Seemed easy enough. 

“Are you nervous?” Pansy asked. Draco scoffed, trying to puff his chest out in an attempt to appear bigger and more put together. 

“Why would I be nervous?” Draco asked. She moved in front of him to adjust his hair, making sure that it was pushed back just enough that it looked controlled, but it wasn’t so stuffy that he appeared he was going to a job interview. 

“You’re going to Muggle London, my dear,” Pansy chuckled at him as she stepped back, admiring her work. “To meet with a Muggle-born witch, no doubt. One that you can’t stop whining about.”

“I’m not whining,” Draco looked away from her, searching for his wand. “Also, that rhymed so it sounded stupid, and I’m going to ignore it.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Pansy dropped back down onto his bed, giggling then. “Pining after. Slip of the tongue.”

Draco took a steadying breath, bracing himself to put up his mental locks. He always had to start with her, and the smell of her shampoo, and the look on her eyes the day that she’d punched him during their Third Year. He’d deserved it, truly. Thirteen year-old-Draco deserved a slap nearly every other day. 

Pansy sent him through the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron as if she was a mother seeing her child off for his first day of school. All that was missing was Blaise, the stone-faced father, smiling down at his adoring wife as she cried for her kid that she’d see come winter break. 

Hermione’s instructions lead him to a shop that looked as if it belonged on Diagon Alley rather than Muggle London. The lower level was a shoe store, with a small door situated beside it. The sign on the door read Aubaine with an arrow pointing to the staircase. The stairway was dark and a little dusty, as if he was the first person to enter in weeks. As he neared the top, sounds started to filter their way down to him. People laughing and chatting about, teacups clinking against china, and the sounds of beverages being poured. And the smells that he encountered when he finally reached the landing—almonds and pastry dough and chai—the sight blew all of his other senses back down the staircase. 

White walls adorned with ornate trim were decorated with shelving and pictures that didn’t move. On the shelves sat different tea sets, and books, and a few knick-knacks. A flower sat on every table and even more hung from the ceiling, brilliant pale blue petals glowing in the lights from the two chandeliers. The space was barely big enough for one bathroom, ten tables, and a pastry case. The far wall was all glass, and that was when he realized there was another room. 

“You can seat yourself,” a woman with vibrant red hair said to him as she passed, expertly balancing a service tray of cups and plates. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

The wait staff were wearing simple button ups with black ties, paired with jeans and black shoes. All of the women had their hair pulled back in braids or buns, and they seemed all too happy to be serving the few Muggles which sat at the tables.

Draco walked toward an archway that led to the second room, and was amazed at what he found. Six more tables lined the perimeter of the small balcony that overlooked the street below. They were protected by an awning from which hung dozens more flowers. He could see brilliant purple lavender and lovely pink orchids hanging from the awning. The floor was a grey tile that looked cool to the touch, although Draco wouldn’t dare ever to bend down and touch the floor. The patio tables were as white as the stucco walls, and each of them had a small bowl at the center, filled with flower petals and a floating tea light candle. If Draco knew Hermione to be anything other than honest, he would have thought they weren’t in Muggle London at all. 

He was still standing there, looking dumbfounded, when she appeared in the archway. She seemed breathless, as if she’d been running. Was she late? Draco couldn’t see a clock, and he’d never been one to carry a pocket watch. Suddenly, he wished he did. He could give her shit for being late, and watch the blush that would no doubt creep across her cheeks. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she breathed out. Hermione straightened herself out and adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “I had a Ministry meeting that took longer than expected.”

Was it a meeting? Or had she been off snogging Weasley somewhere? 

Draco had to fight back his instinct to lash out at her. After all, he knew her to be nothing except honest. It was one of those bullshit traits that tied all Gryffindors together. They never believed that they had done anything wrong, so they never felt the need to lie. Self-preservation wasn’t one of their strong suits. 

“It’s alright, Granger,” he forced a lop-sided smile onto his face. He hoped it came across as friendly rather than snarky. The last thing that he needed to do was offend her in front of Muggles. He already knew what force her punches packed, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to experience that again. “I’ll survive.”

The smile that she shot back at him wasn’t pleasant nor negative—like she was smiling at a stranger on the train out of politeness. She was treating him as if he was another criminal she had to be professional with until it was time for him to go. 

Draco and Hermione chose a two-seated table toward the back of the patio, as far away from the archway as possible. The same redhead came back with small paper menus, handing them over with an introduction. 

“I’m Beverly, and I’ll be taking care of you today,” she told them. “I just have to clear a table and then I’ll be right back with you.”

She disappeared back into the cafe, and Draco watched as she left. He wondered how many times she had to introduce herself to people who couldn’t give a damn about her or her name.

“They have a really good tea selection,” Hermione cleared her throat when he looked at her. She was wearing another dress, this one a vibrant shade of red with white flowers on it. She’d matched it with a pair of tan heels, which showed off her legs all the way up to her mid-thigh. Draco had always wondered what her thighs looked like. And they were staring him in the face, calling out to him. _Touch me_. He wanted to. But, he also didn’t want to get hexed. 

Hermione still wore that berry shade on her lips that drove him wild. Her hair was pulled back into a braid that started at the crown of her head and fell down past her shoulders. Her hair looked smooth, any trace of her signature knots and frizz completely gone. Her lips were pursed as she browsed the menu, accentuating the delicious dip in her cupid’s bow. He was losing his composure. 

Before he had the chance to spontaneously combust, Beverly was back at their table. Hermione ordered a typical black tea, and an almond croissant. Draco was too nervous to eat. 

“Do you have any recommendations?” he asked. Hermione eyed him and his menu that still sat, untouched on the table. Beverly’s eyes lit up, as if it was the first time all day someone had asked for her opinion on something. 

“I prefer the peppermint tea,” she told him. “It’s nice and light, and honestly I don’t even put any milk in mine.”

While the thought of not putting milk in his tea forced his eyebrow to raise, he nodded. 

“I’ll take that,” he said, handing her back the menu. Hermione followed, handing hers over as well. “Thanks.”

Beverly nodded at them and then disappeared to fetch their order. Hermione seemed tense, as if it was her first time in a Muggle cafe and not his. She was eyeing him as if he was about to explode. He wouldn’t, if she’d just stop looking at him like that. Draco decided to make an attempt at small talk, despite his lack of success with his previous attempt. 

“How are things at the Ministry?” he asked. “Can’t be too smooth if your meetings are running late.”

Hermione sighed and shook her head, reaching for her bag. 

“They found a group of wizards in Wales that were rounding up Muggles and torturing them,” the words sounded heavy, as if it took all of her energy to get them out. He could see something flickering in her eyes. She knew what they had gone through, because she was once in that position. Hermione didn’t look at him, instead keeping her eyes on the Muggles inside. “Harry and a few other Aurors are on their way there. It was a strategic meeting.”

“And an administrator for the Wizenmagot was involved in the meeting?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you do more than administrative work.”

“I’m taking over the cases when they are apprehended,” Hermione licked at her bottom lip. Her eyebrows pushed together as thoughts ran flashed across her eyes. “Well, not _taking_ _over_. But I’m assigned to their trials, should they be taken alive.”

Draco had forgotten that the Ministry gave Aurors permission to use Unforgivable Curses should they need to defend themselves. He knew that they rarely did so—at least, it was never publicized when they did. 

Beverly returned with their order and then left again, as more Muggles had sat down inside. Most of them appeared to be in their mid-thirties, many of them men in suits that made Draco a little jealous. If this was the kind of fashion Pansy had been keeping from him, she was going to get an earful when he got home. He especially liked the royal blue suits that many of the men were wearing. It had never occurred to him to buy a suit in that color. And then men looked downright dashing, if he could have the freedom to say that. 

The peppermint tea was delicious, even if it didn’t have milk in it. Draco made a mental note to ask Beverly where they source their tea from before he left. He wouldn’t mind sipping this with his mother every morning. It would make doing so feel like less of a chore. 

“Have you given any thought to your future?” Hermione asked. She’d taken out a file and had a small instrument in her hands, which Draco assumed she was going to use to write down his answers. 

“Hard to do that when you don’t think you have one.” Draco sipped at the tea, trying to keep his voice light. 

“What do you mean?” 

Draco knew it was a simple question, and that she hadn’t meant any harm by it. But, he’d felt that his words were perfectly clear. He didn’t have a future. If he was lucky, the firewhiskey would do him in before he was in his forties. His mother could take the inheritance and do with it as she pleased. 

“Honestly, Granger,” he sat up in his seat. “Do you really think that someone like me will be handed a Ministry job when all of this is over? I’m not some common wizard who will settle for a life peddling flowers from a cart in Diagon Alley. Without influence, my family is nothing.”

Hermione scribbled down his words. Her eyes glittered with curiosity, as if she’d never considered that fact before. He didn’t know how to explain pureblood, or even basic Wizarding, social hierarchy to her. That would take far too long. The relationships his family had created were centuries old and ties were being severed faster than his mother could plant flowers. 

“What did your father do for a living?” 

Draco snorted at that, his eyes rolling of their own volition. Of course, Hermione had no idea that his family, and others like it, had controlled the British Isles for centuries. Muggles, of course, had families like that too—but from what he knew, many of them were bad at holding onto money. They got rich fast, and lost it all before they had a chance to appreciate what they had. It was one of the many things his father hated about them; their inability to properly handle money and assets. 

“He didn’t have to work,” Draco shrugged, hoping to give off an air of nonchalance. His father hadn’t worked a day in his life, just as his father hadn’t, and his father’s father. “You forget, Granger, our family has been in Britain for centuries, and we’re rather good with our money.”

“He must have done something in his free time.”

“I believe these questions are directed at him, not me.”

There Draco went again, getting defensive. He couldn’t help himself. Hermione was asking him questions that had no relevance to himself. She was asking questions that could have been asked at his father’s trial if the Ministry wanted the information that badly. Most of the Malfoy family doings were public record anyway. It would take five minutes to find a list of the many donations made over the years by each of Draco’s ancestors. 

Hermione studied him, searching his face for any inkling of what he wasn’t saying. The joke, however, was on her. He’d made sure his mental locks were secure before leaving the house. She pressed her lips into a thin line and turned back to her notes.

Draco sipped his tea, suddenly rather upset that it wasn’t firewhiskey, and answered her questions to the best of his ability. She brought up their previous conversations about his favorite classes at Hogwarts. Hermione was hoping that he could do something with any of the classes that he had enjoyed. She even had the nerve to ask if he’d go back and teach at Hogwarts. As if that was something a Malfoy would do. 

His responses grew shorter, and his tone more clipped, as the hour dragged on. The air of magic that had enchanted the cafe when he arrived seemed to float right off the patio and down the street. Rather than being impressed by the array of flowers covering the roof, and thinking that he should bring his mother for a visit, he found himself wanting to set fire to the entire city block. 

Hermione watched him stand from the table as she began to pack her things. Draco couldn’t stand the look of concern on her face. He was frustrated, not at her, but at the situation. He could feel the wall of professionalism between them, guarding her from him. He wanted to ask her questions; he wanted to make her laugh, and the few times that she smiled at him were etching themselves into the side of his brain. Each meeting she was giving him more things that he had to lock away, more feelings that he had to hide. 

“Did you like this place?” 

He had turned to leave, and her question stopped him in his tracks. Draco turned to face her, searching her face the same way that she searched his. She stood up to face him, her jaw setting itself as it always did when she looked at him. Hermione was ever ready to whip out her wand and aim it at his throat. At least, that’s what it felt like. 

“I don’t think it matters if I do,” Draco shrugged. He stared at the boots that he was wearing; if he looked at her any longer, he was going to fall apart. “But, it was bearable.”

“Draco, I—”

His heart slammed against his breast-bone with enough force to nearly break it. It was only the second time she had used his first name, but it sent fireworks shooting off inside of his mind. The way her tongue curled around the _r_ , cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to say it. He cut her off by holding up a hand. 

“Malfoy.”

And then, he was stepping back into the cafe and making his way to the staircase. He nodded good-bye to Beverly on his way out, and tried to ignore the way her eyes lingered on him as he descended the stairs. 

Who was she, to use his first name? As if she had any right to claim it with her mouth, and shoot it back out at him like a poisoned dart. She was playing a game, that much had to be true. She was testing him, seeing what made him break. Perhaps that was the real point of their meetings. To see how dangerous he was. 

Well, the Ministry could go and fuck itself if that was how it wanted to be. He wasn’t going to another one of those fucking meetings. And if he ended up in Azkaban, so be it. Anything was better than sitting inches away from Hermione, unable to touch her, unable to actually talk to her. In their youth, his blind ignorance had kept them from one another. In their teenage years, his pursuit of her safety caused him to remain aloof and at sometimes even brutal. And in their young adulthood, her own hubris and the pettiness of the Ministry were keeping them apart. 

Or maybe it was Draco keeping them apart, and he was too sober and too stupid to accept it.

Draco imagined them walking down Diagon Alley together, hand-in-hand. She’d smile up at him, and he down at her, and passersby would wish to have what they had. Hermione would giggle in the middle of the night, illuminated by the fireplace. She’d trace her fingers over the jagged scar that her best friend left on his chest, and wonder how she ever thought him to be a bloodthirsty monster. She’d known all along, but had to deny it to keep herself safe. To keep him safe. 

Hermione would chase their children around the property, her eyes alight with joy. Memories of him in their childhood wiped from her mind, overshadowed by the sight of him standing on the patio watching them. He’d be the proudest of fathers, and the most faithful of husbands if only she’d let him. 

She’d look over the dinner table at him, her hand in his, and whisper sweet nothings when his mother wasn’t paying attention. And she’d say his first name, and he’d catch it in his mouth as his lips met hers. 

Draco’s daydreams carried him all the way home and up to his room. He left the glass behind and went straight for the bottle, taking a deep sip. His sobriety was getting the better of him; letting him think foolish things. He’d said it during the meeting—he had no future. He had nothing to look forward to. 

And she’d said his first name. 

But, none of it mattered. Not his daydreams, not his nightmares, and not the words that she could have said if he gave her the chance. None of it gave her the right to say his first name and drive him into a frenzy. If she wasn’t interested in a personal connection, she should stick to his surname and remember what it was like when they were children. Before things got complicated and he was forced to close himself off completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hii :) going back to worn has been insane but i'm back with an update!! feel free to visit my tumblr draqo-pctter for story updates and dramione trash


	9. SONNET 9: QUEEN VIRTUE'S COURT, WHICH SOME CALL STELLA'S FACE

SONNET 9

_Queen Virtue’s court, which some call Stella’s face,_   
_Prepared by Nature’s choicest furniture,_   
_Hath his front built of alabaster pure;_   
_Gold is the covering of that stately place._   
_The door, by which, sometimes, comes forth her grace,_   
_Red porphyr is, which lock of pearl makes sure;_   
_Whose porches rich (which name of ‘cheeks’ endure)_   
_Marble, mixed red and white, do interlace._   
_The windows now, through which this heavenly guest_   
_Looks o’er the world, and can find nothing such_   
_Which dare claim from those lights the name of ‘best,’_   
_Of touch they are, that without touch doth touch,_   
_Which Cupid’s self, from Beauty’s mind did draw:_   
_Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw._

* * *

June gave way to July, and Draco couldn’t help but feel as if the heat was suffocating him. Everywhere he went he felt uncomfortable. His clothes clung to his body too tight, and his shoes didn’t seem to fit anymore. When anyone spoke to him, their voices sounded like nails on a chalkboard. 

Each night his dreams got more vivid, Hermione’s voice sounding more like the real thing. He didn’t know if it was the whiskey or his mental locks falling apart. Draco didn’t know if it mattered, either. He could only remember pieces of them when he woke up. Images of berry toned lips, caramel colored skin, and the sounds of Hermione screaming on his drawing room floor. 

Despite his dreams, Draco hated waking up. Rain or shine, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It would take him hours to be able to even open his eyes. He knew what he would see, and who he wouldn’t. 

That morning, Draco’s journal was open on his bed, a quill still placed in between the pages. Some of the ink had smudged, but most of it was still readable. He stared at it, barely taking in the image past the glassy haze in his eyes. He wanted to cry, but there were no tears left. He’d spent them all the night before. 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to meet with Hermione Granger the next day, even if someone held a wand to his head. He felt sicker than usual, his insides churning with every breath that he took. 

_This is my future_ , he thought to himself. _This is who I am._

A knock on his bedroom door shook him out of his stupor. If he had the energy, he would have yelled. The heat from the blankets pressed in on his chest; he was having trouble breathing. 

The door opened and Theodore stuck his head inside. He stepped into the room and then closed the door quietly. Draco assumed that meant Narcissa didn’t know Theodore was there. He watched his friend cross the room slowly, concern smeared all over his face. 

“Wild night?” Theodore asked. Draco struggled to sit up, every muscle in his body screaming for him to stay in place. He quickly tossed the blankets over his journal, hiding it from view. 

“Not quite.” Draco pressed his hands to his face and then pushed them back into his hair, pulling on it. Then, he let his hands drop to the bed. Draco stared at the pattern in his sheets, tracing the golden spirals that cut through a sea of emerald green. 

“You’ve got to get up, mate,” Theodore stood at the foot of Draco’s bed, staring at him. “It’s nearly three.”

“Why are you even here?” Draco groaned, leaning back against the headboard. Theodore crossed his arms over his chest. 

“We were supposed to have lunch,” Theodore said. Draco tried searching for any recollection of making plans with Theo. All he could remember was the pub a few days before, and way too many shots. Blaise had even participated, that’s how rowdy they got. “When you didn’t show, I figured you had either gone on the run, or you’re sporting a nasty hangover. So, after having a wonderful lunch by myself, I Floo’d right over.”

“I’m sorry.” Draco sighed. He let the gold and green colors swirl together as his eyes went out of focus. He couldn’t form any other words. His mind was completely blank, save for a kaleidoscope of green and gold. 

“Drink this,” Theodore tossed something into his lap. “I have another if you need it.”

Draco did as he was told, not bothering to read the label. The bottle fit easily in the palm of his hand, almost like a shot glass. He tipped his head back and let whatever-it-was snake its way down his throat. It had no taste, but it was thicker than water. 

Maybe Theodore was poisoning him; putting him out of his misery. 

Minutes ticked by and he felt his body start to relax. His stomach let go of whatever it had been holding onto, and he took in a deep breath. The pounding in his head began to slow, and soon enough he was able to focus his eyes. Theodore was sitting on his bed by then, a hand on his right leg. Draco cleared his throat. 

“I don’t remember agreeing to lunch,” Draco started, feeling like a prick. “I’m sorry. How about we meet up tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow is Tuesday,” Theodore chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to make you late for your date.”

Draco threw a pillow at him, missing his head by a few inches. Theodore had quick reflexes—he could have been good enough at Quidditch, if the sport had ever interested him. 

“Fuck off,” Draco rolled his eyes. He wanted to be upset, but the hangover potion had done its job. He felt alert and energetic; he could run into Hermione right then and be pleasant as a peach. Maybe. 

“Probably shouldn’t drink tonight,” Theodore turned serious for a moment. “I don’t want Granger sending you off somewhere you don’t belong.”

And there was Theodore, for the second (or third) time in his life making complete sense. Draco was starting to hate when he did that.

* * *

Draco followed through on his promise, making sure not to drink too much Monday evening. The next day, he met up with Theodore at The Golden Chalices, his friend’s choice. Draco ordered some kind of pasta, while Theodore chose some sort of sandwich that had far too much cheese on it. Draco could barely eat his own meal; he was too busy watching Theodore try and shove strands of cheese into his face. 

They met late, around 1:30 pm, to give them both time to sleep in. It also meant that Draco could leave right from there and head to Aubaine, where he was sure he was going to suffer. He refrained from drinking at lunch, not wanting to act a fool in front of Hermione. It would be in poor taste. 

“Just remember,” Theodore wiped at his mouth with his napkin before taking a sip of his drink. “Don’t let yourself lose it. We all know you have a temper, and an unforgivingly short fuse. If you want any chance at wooing her, you have to keep your composure.”

“Composure or not, she’ll never be mine,” Draco scoffed. And then Theodore’s words finally registered. “Hey. Don’t tell me what to do like you’re some kind of wingman.”

“If I was your wingman, you two wouldn’t be meeting at a Muggle cafe,” Theodore wiggled his eyebrows tauntingly. “I can tell you that much.”

“And when’s the last time you were successful with dating?” Draco asked, leaning forward. He knew the answer—four years. And the term successful only applied if the goal was a one-night stand with Daphne, and not a relationship. 

“A man never kisses and tells,” Theodore folded his arms behind his head, resting against the bench he sat on. “That would be improper.”

Before leaving The Golden Chalices, Draco stepped into the loo to transfigure his robes into something more appealing to the Muggle eye. Pansy had given him a number of outfits to replicate, and he tried remembering one that wouldn’t force him into wearing a shade of red. He donned tan dress pants, a green button up, and a black jacket that Pansy swore up and down didn’t belong with a suit. Despite the fact that it very much looked like it belonged with a suit. The belt was black and he was wearing the same boots as the previous outfit. He considered putting his hair in what Pansy had called a “man bun” but decided against it, letting his hair sit at his shoulders as usual. 

Draco cocked his head to the side as he stared at himself in the mirror. He could see the resemblance between himself and his father. They both had the same pointed nose and chiseled jawline that looked sharp enough to cut glass. He’d grown into his cheekbones as he’d aged, but he still looked unnaturally pale. He considered taking a trip to Italy when all of the Granger nonsense was over, if he didn’t end up in prison. He needed more sun. 

Beverly was working again when he arrived, and she smiled warmly at him. Draco took a moment to look over the pastry case—he had an hour to kill, after all—and decided on a particularly good looking danish. Beverly assured him that it would pair well with the peppermint tea, which brought a smile to his own lips. As she gathered his order, Draco made his way to the patio and sat in the same chair as the previous week. 

Muggles of different shapes and sizes milled the street below. He found himself particularly drawn to the couples lazily making their way down the street. They stopped at shop windows and fawned over objects that Draco couldn’t see. Sometimes they entered the shop and returned minutes later with big shopping bags; other times they returned to their walk, pausing at another shop a few store fronts down. And then they repeated the process until they were down the street and out of view. 

He knew that his family—centuries before—had made their money dealing with Muggles. His father only mentioned it a few times in passing, when frustrated at the increasingly high number of Muggle-born witches and wizards flocking to Hogwarts, and eventually getting high-profile jobs. Draco had parroted his father’s language in his youth, too young to understand what he was saying. 

Staring at the Muggles on the street below, Draco thought that they looked quite normal. Aside from their clothes, and the lack of owls and apothecaries, it appeared to be a street like any other that he’d shopped on before. 

Beverly dropped off his drink and danish at the table, her eyes not once leaving his face. He smiled up at her and hoped that it came across as genuine. 

Hermione arrived around 4:45, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw him already seated. She approached him cautiously, as she always did, keeping her eyes fixated on his hands. He didn’t know what was so threatening about them—all he’d done was lick some of the danish filling from his pointer finger, and then picked up his teacup. Her mouth opened the littlest bit and then closed again. 

If Draco didn’t know any better, he’d think Hermione was lost in the idea of his finger, and his mouth. Girls often stared at him that way at parties and in school, their eyes glazing over as he did the most mundane of tasks. But, it was Hermione, and there wasn’t the slightest possibility that those thoughts had crossed her mind. 

“You’re early.” Hermione didn’t make a move to sit down. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the strap of her bag, her knuckles turning white with the pressure. She was wearing another dress, this one a simple blue cocktail dress. Rather than heels, she’d chosen black flats, and Draco was surprised to see that her legs still looked sculpted as ever. 

“I had some free time,” he shrugged, hoping he appeared nonchalant. “Figured I’d do some people watching.”

“People watching?”

Draco raised an eyebrow at her, letting a smile dance on his lips. She seemed nervous, which was new. Draco had never seen her anything other than impassive or defensive in his presence. She knew she was a better witch than he was a wizard; he would lose to her in a duel any day. Most likely because he’d be too busy watching her lips form around the curses she’d send his way. 

“I do believe that’s what it’s called,” he took another sip of his tea. “You know. Observing people as they go by. Noticing small details about them. Ruminating about what they might be thinking and feeling; wondering where they are in life. Creating stories in your mind about them. All of that nonsense.”

“If it’s nonsense, then why do it?” Hermione cocked her head to the side. She still wasn’t sitting down, and Draco wondered if she was going to conduct the rest of the meeting from the center of the walkway. 

“To pass the time.”

Draco couldn’t give her the real reason. He’d needed time to settle his own nerves, to get more in tune with their new environment. He needed to know the space as well as he knew his own home, in case something were to happen. In case he did something stupid and needed to make a quick escape. Once he was comfortable, he could be confident. Maybe.

Hermione sat down and slowly took out her things, not once taking her eyes off of him. He tried not to focus on where her eyes went, but he couldn’t help himself. She was looking him over, and her tongue briefly flashed out to lick at her lip before disappearing from view. 

For the rest of the meeting, that was all Draco could focus on. That, and Hermione slowly picking away at an almond croissant. He didn’t even remember the questions that she asked, or what his answers were. Draco couldn’t get the image out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stuff that picture into the myriad of boxes labeled Hermione Granger. It wouldn’t fit in any of them. He worried that he would have to make a new box, a new place to store memories of her that he’d have to keep locked away. 

* * *

Narcissa knocked on Draco’s door as he sat at his desk, tapping his quill against the pages of his worn out journal. He’d been writing in that particular one since Christmas, and most of its pages had been filled with his messy scrawl. 

“It’s open,” he called, not taking his eyes from the paragraph he’d been writing. Draco couldn’t remember how long it’d been since he’d written anything worth remembering. All of his entries read like the pointless ramblings of a lovesick child. 

“How’re you feeling?” she tip-toed into the room, leaving the door open. The light from the hall was harsh on Draco’s eyes, and he tried not to wince. 

“I’m fine,” he turned to face her, closing the journal. “How’re you feeling?”

“Wonderful, actually,” Narcissa offered him a genuine smile. For a moment, he thought she’d come to rub her good mood in his face. But the way she was looking at him, as if he was half of the reason she was so happy, made his heart go soft. “I just came to tell you that I decided to have a party here on the thirtieth.”

If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he may have argued. Being around Hermione took up much of Draco’s energy. It was difficult to keep from reaching across the table. He thought he’d locked her away for good after the war, and being confronted with her was nearly more than he could handle. Sending him to Azkaban would be a mercy compared to seeing her every week. 

“Sounds fun,” he forced a smile onto his own lips. Her eyes were sparkling in the light from the candle on his desk, and she seemed ten years younger. He was proud to be her son, even if he wasn’t sure he could be the son she wanted him to be. “I’ll let everyone know.”

“I’ll be sending out personal invitations later this week” Narcissa reached over to play with his hair, a small frown tugging on her lips. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

Draco shrugged, trying to duck away from her touch. She dropped her hand and bowed her head in submission. 

“I won’t bother you about it,” Narcissa made her way to the door. “Just remember that I love you, and I’m your mother. I would kill for you.”

To people like them, those words were true. She wasn’t saying it to make him feel emotionally supported--she was letting him know that she was on his side, even if things got bad. 

As the door closed, Draco turned back to the notebook on his desk. 

_She’s like the firewhiskey that I can’t stop drinking. With each ship I lose another piece of myself, until my soul is flying higher than any seeker. Her eyes drown me in pools of amber, and I can hardly breathe from the burning in my throat._

He closed the book, tucking it away in his drawer. His bed, and the inevitable nightmares, were calling his name. He left the glass of whiskey on the desk where it would wait until he poured it down the drain the following morning. 

* * *

The blue suit looked strikingly handsome in the window of the shoe store. Draco couldn’t help but straighten it out, turning to make sure there were no wrinkles. His hair was pushed back so that it wouldn’t obstruct his view of Hermione. Or her view of him, for that matter. It wasn’t that he was trying to impress her; but, he had to give her a taste of her own medicine. She was strikingly beautiful, and he could be dashing if he wanted to be. At least, that was what Pansy always said. 

A gentleman in his mid-thirties stepped out of the stairway that led up to Aubaine. His own suite was grey in color with a green tie and pocket square. Draco thought the pairing was simple but strong, and he catalogued it down to the cuff-links. 

“Nice suite.” The man smiled at Draco before nodding and making his way across the street. 

Draco looked back at his reflection, a smirk growing on his lips as he nodded to himself. It was a nice suite. And a good day. 

He made his way upstairs, smiling at Beverly as he made his way to the patio. Despite the fact that it was 4:30, Hermione was already seated. She’d caught on to him. It was so like her, to _have_ to be there first. Draco couldn’t help the fact that the smile on his face grew wider. She was a challenge for sure. And he wanted to compete with her. 

Hermione’s hair was falling about her shoulders, shimmering gold in the sunshine. Her dress was green with white polkadots, and held together with twenty or so small, white buttons. That particular shade of green accentuated the richer tone to her skin that had come with the summer sun. He wondered if she spent much time outside, and if so what she did. Did she garden like his mother? Or did she enjoy swimming? Did she wear a two-piece, or--

“Malfoy.”

She was staring at him, and he was staring at her, and Draco almost turned around and walked away. He hoped that his pocket square was in place, and that it wasn’t obvious he couldn’t breathe. 

“Granger.”

His voice sounded strong enough. It wasn’t totally obvious that his knees had begun shaking. Draco felt like he was on a first date, and would only have one chance to get it right. 

“You’re wearing a suite.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her pupils were taking up most of her irises. That was good, right? Draco’s confidence was waning. Was he not supposed to wear a suite? Everyone else was. 

“I do believe that’s what they are called,” he quipped, taking the seat across from her. The expression on her face seared itself into his brain, and Draco knew that he would dream about it for days. She seemed dumbfounded, and it was a truly adorable look on her. “However, you are the Muggle expert.” 

Hermione pursed her lips, a look of mild amusement spreading across her face. That day, she had tinted her lips red, and Draco was beside himself with the realization. 

“You’re also early.”

Draco couldn’t look away from the sparkle in her eyes. If she had been any other witch, and he was any other wizard, he may have assumed that Hermione was flirting with him. He kept tabs on her eyes, which hovered on his for a few moments before dancing down to his pocket square. Hermione lingered there for a breath before glancing back up at him. 

“People watching,” Draco echoed his statement from the previous week as he straightened himself up in his chair. He placed his hands on the table, broadening out his shoulders. Hermione could look, if she wanted to. The suit was rather dashing. “You’re even earlier than me. Judging by the state of this table,” Draco motioned at her pile of paperwork and notebooks, “you’ve been here for at least twenty minutes. I hadn’t known it was possible to be earlier than early.”

A smile was twitching at the corners of Hermione’s lips, threatening to break the image of nonchalance that she’d been portraying. Draco was absolutely buzzing, fighting the urge to let his left leg bounce beneath the table. The table they had been using was situated in the back corner of the patio, against a red brick wall. Lilac blooms clung to the moss that covered the wall, in much the same fashion that hundreds of lavender still hung from the ceiling. In the soft haze that often accompanied cloudy July days in Britain, Hermione looked absolutely stunning. 

“You’re both early,” the sound of Beverly’s voice popped the bubble that had begun to form around them. Hermione blushed as she began to move papers around the table, trying to make room. Draco kept his eyes on which ones she grabbed, trying to find labels or names. She deftly opened the one marked Draco Lucius Malfoy and scooted a few files in front of it. 

Hermione was good, even Draco had to admit it. Who knew a Gryffindor could be so sneaky? Was that why she brought so much work with her? To cover up and distract him from whatever it was she was writing down? 

Draco took the plates from Beverly’s hands. He wasn’t going to try and place the tea--there was never any room for it. Once Beverly set down the cups, she nodded to them and was hurrying back inside. Draco cleared his throat to get Hermione’s attention; she was looking frantically through her bag for something. 

“Here,” Draco offered over the almond croissant, surprised that Beverly had not only remembered, but had the intuition to realize that both Draco and Hermione were creatures of habit. Hermione set the plate down on top of his file before turning back to her bag. “What’re you looking for?”

“A pen,” Hermione huffed. She began pulling out all kinds of items: a Time-Turner, a book the size of Draco’s whiskey bottle, a coat, a pack of gum. “Ah. Here it is.”

Hermione set the instrument that she used to write while at Aubaine down on the table and quickly shoved everything back into the bag. So that’s what the tool was called. Draco watched as she pushed on the top and it made a small clicking sound. 

“Is that what Muggles use to write?” Draco asked, leaning forward. Hermione laughed--a genuine, light-hearted laugh--and nodded her head. 

“I suppose it makes sense that you wouldn’t know what a pen is,” she offered it to him across the table. Draco took it in his hands, studying it. When he pushed on the top, the tip disappeared inside the small tube of metal. When he pushed it again, the tip reappeared. “It’s like a quill, only it runs out eventually. And the ink isn’t magic.”

Draco handed the pen back to her, slowly nodding. While it seemed inefficient and rather expensive, he couldn’t deny that the Muggles were somewhat ingenious. Their non-magical solutions to problems, such as how to write, impressed him. 

“I’m surprised you managed to find it in that bag,” Draco nodded to the satchel hanging from her chair. “You sure bring an awful lot to these meetings.”

“And you don’t bring anything,” Hermione was smirking at him. “I suppose that shows who really cares about these meetings.”

Hermione didn’t mean it like that. Draco knew she hadn’t meant to suggest that she actually cared about the time that they spent together. What Hermione meant was that it was her job, and she was always prepared for her work. She had been tasked with making sure he found a successful future as far away from Dark Magic as possible. She also was suggesting that Draco was treating it like a joke, as if there weren’t any consequences for failing to comply. 

“I care,” Draco said before he could stop himself. The words hung between them, weighing down the patio until Draco feared--rather, wished--the patio would collapse from the pressure. 

Amber colored eyes bore into his own, Hermione’s expression unreadable. After what felt like an eternity, Hermione slowly nodded. 

“I care too.” Her voice was soft, barely audible over the chatter from the street below. Hermione cleared her throat and broke eyecontact, her gaze dropping down to the file in front of her. She held her pen to the parchment, keeping her eyes cast down. “Now, where did we leave off last week?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm very happy with this chapter, and it's rare that i say that!! i'm excited for the direction of this story; stay tuned for intense subplots and pansy related drama ;)
> 
> as always, feel free to check out my tumblr, draqo-pctter, for story updates and other hp related content :)


	10. SONNET 10: REASON, IN FAITH THOU ART WELL SERVED, THAT STILL

SONNET 10

_Reason, in faith thou art well served, that still_   
_Would’st brabbling be with sense and love in me._   
_I rather wished thee climb the muses’ hill,_   
_Or reach the fruit of Nature’s choicest tree,_   
_Or seek heaven’s course, or heaven’s inside, to see:_   
_Why should’st thou toil our thorny soil to till?_   
_Leave sense, and those which sense’s objects be:_   
_Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will._   
_But thou would’st needs fight both with love and sense,_   
_With sword of wit giving wounds of dispraise,_   
_Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence:_   
_For soon as they strake thee with Stella’s rays,_   
_Reason, thou kneeled’st, and offered’st straight to prove_   
_By reason good, good reason her to love._

* * *

Draco sat between Theodore and Blaise at a bar, staring down at the glass of firewhiskey in front of him. The group had decided no shots that evening, and Draco hated to admit that he was relieved. His companionship with firewhiskey was growing too fond; he’d gone through nearly an entire bottle the night before. 

Why he drank didn’t matter so much to Draco. What he found interesting was  _ when _ he wanted to drink. 

At first glance, the reasoning was simple: he drank when he felt out of control, or when he felt paralyzed by existential dread. It made sense that he would use alcohol to cope with the fact that he’d gotten away with encouraging and participating in a war. A war based on pureblood ideologies, no less. 

Draco had done terrible things. Some of them, he couldn’t remember. There were gaps in his memory, particularly after Voldemort took up residence in the Manor. Draco assumed that he’d locked them away, perhaps buried them even deeper than he’d buried Hermione. The things that he could remember--cursing Katie Bell, nearly killing Dumbledore, letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts--made his skin feel paper thin. Draco could hardly remember how he’d felt at that time, and less than two years had passed. Occulmency had shielded him from himself, and the firewhiskey had burned away any remaining emotion. Drinking had become compulsory, something that he had no control over. 

Days and weeks had blurred together with the slow burn of alcohol. Light became dark in an endless cycle. In the light, life was bearable. In the dark, he wanted to run away. To disappear into the night and never be seen again. 

And then Hermione Granger was sitting at his hearing, mouthing off to the judge and calling him out on his shit. That was the first time he’d enjoyed being sober, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. Cleveland, the Wizarding World’s Worst Attorney, wasn’t the only thing that had Draco’s heart hammering away in his chest. Frustration mixed with intense curiosity. That day, he knew that she didn’t like him. At first, that had made him want to drink more. But, then, things began to change. Things changed slowly, the way a flower blooms--sobriety unfolding itself as Hermione warmed the ice in his mind.

Draco could only drink when spending time with Hermione was days away. It was something to pass the time; something to keep him full until he could see her again. He could drink that evening, their next meeting was two days away. 

“You’ve been awfully quiet.” Blaise nudged Draco with his elbow. Draco sighed and took a sip of the whiskey. He let it sit in his mouth for a moment, almost unsure if he should swallow it or spit it back into the glass. In the end, Draco swallowed. 

“Just a lot on my mind,” Draco said, sounding just as distracted as he felt. 

“He’s trying to accept his feelings for Granger,” Theodore said nonchalantly. “His heart says yes, but his mind is rejecting the idea. He just needs some time.”

“Feelings for Granger?” Blaise raised an eyebrow. Draco wanted to punch Theodore square in the face, but he decided against it. His mother always said it was better to talk about one’s feelings. 

“Not  _ feelings _ ,” Draco pursed his lips. “I just fancy her a little, that’s all.”

“Leave it to Draco to think about a girl when he should be thinking about the future.”

Theodore hiccupped, a lazy smile spreading across his face. Draco wanted to scruff him up by the shirt, but knew that Blaise would knock him out faster than he could get off the barstool. 

“Speaking of the future,” Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Have you even thought about a job?”

Draco snorted, amused by his friend’s question. Of course he hadn’t. Hermione hadn’t left him much room to think about anything else. 

“I’ve always said you should be a Healer,” Theodore shrugged. He waved the bartender down, ordering another round for the group. “You had a knack for it during the war.”

Draco winced. He didn’t like thinking about the war, let alone the amount of time that he spent making sure Voldemort’s prisoners didn’t die. Toward the end, he’d begun to grow tired of the endless violence. He’d use memory charms to sneak past the guards and had worked to repair the prisoners’ tortured bodies. Draco hadn’t thought about that aspect of his past since his trial. 

“Theo might have a point,” Blaise allowed. The drinks arrived, and Blaise distributed them. “I’m not saying that you have to be a Healer. If that was out of necessity rather than passion, don’t spend the rest of your life doing it. Just think about what you enjoy, and go from there.”

“You enjoy being Rita Skeeter’s editor?” Draco raised an eyebrow. Blaise shrugged. 

“Today, I’m her editor,” Blaise raised up his glass. “But tomorrow, I could be editing the entire _Daily_ _Prophet_.”

“Cheers to that, mate!” Theodore raised up his glass to clink it against Blaise’s. “Draco, raise up your glass!”

“To what?” Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a future.”

“Neither do I!” Theodore smiled wickedly at him. “The only difference is, you’re worth one. And you’ve got a woman who will get you there.”

“Granger?”

“Your mother.”

Theodore raised a challenging eyebrow at Draco. Blaise let out a hearty laugh, and Draco couldn’t help but smile. He raised up his glass. 

“To our futures,” Draco said. “And to my mother. May I not be the world’s biggest disappointment.”

The three laughed and sipped at their drinks in unison. Draco tried to let himself feel relaxed. He couldn’t see himself as a Healer. Healers had a kind of compassion and empathy that Draco simply didn’t contain. But, he wanted to help people. Maybe. 

Perhaps Granger would have a few ideas. 

* * *

Hermione had no ideas, just a lot of questions. Draco sipped at his tea and tried to act as polite as possible. He’d accidentally admitted aloud what he had the night before: that he wanted to help people, but lacked empathy. Rather than attempt to help him find a job, Hermione wanted to know what he meant by that. And, how that made him feel. 

Sitting with his left leg crossed over his right and his chin resting in his hand, Draco was mentally somewhere else. He shuffled through his memories as his mouth gave back nonchalant answers to Hermione’s inquiries. Hidden behind his mental locks, Draco was free to feel however he wanted. He found himself drifting back to the early Hogwarts days, reminiscing on the way things had been. 

In the hallways, Draco had been somewhat of a prat. He could remember how he’d carried himself, flanked on both sides by Grabbe and Goyle. For the first few years, Draco had felt incredibly cool. He enjoyed the fact that people looked at him as he went by, no matter what expressions took over their faces. Whether they were disgusted, enchanted, or apparently indifferent, they were  _ looking _ . Just like everyone looked at his parents when they moved about the Ministry, or Wizarding London. Even abroad, his parents attracted attention. 

Despite his best efforts, Draco had never seemed to attract the attention that he wanted. People should like him, and want to be around him. Well, the proper people, that was. He had fallen in love with the idea of pureblood aristocracy and the power which came with it. The Malfoy lineage was ancient, nearly as old as Britain itself. Years of grooming had made him the embodiment of pureblood idealism well before his sixteenth birthday. Draco could see himself standing beside Pansy, aged fourteen, standing hand-in-hand in the Great Hall. He could smell the Slytherin Common Room during Second Year as he paced in front of the fireplace with worry. 

Hermione’s lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear the words. Instead, he could see her marching the halls in her school robes. It was Fifth Year, and she was a Prefect just as he was. They never did rounds together, but they’d run into each other in the Library a few times. She’d just be leaving as he’d be turning the corner, or he’d be packing up his things the moment she passed him in search of a book. Her lips hadn’t tried to speak to him then. 

The Yule Ball during Fourth Year; she was radiant. Draco had forgotten how to breathe when she’d descended the staircase. That girl was dead and gone, just like the boy who had been left breathless at the sight of her. 

“Draco?” Hermione’s head tilted to the side as she pursed her lips. Draco cleared his throat and sat up, uncrossing his legs. 

“Hmm?” He asked, reaching for his tea. 

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked. “You seem… distracted.”

_ I am _ , Draco thought to himself. He shrugged, not wanting to bother her with how little he was sleeping. Draco doubted that she’d care. 

“Just tired.”

“Yes, I’d imagine that lounging about in a Manor House all day can be quite exhausting.”

“The pool is rather far from the conservatory,” Draco crossed his arms over his chest. His left leg wanted to start bouncing beneath the table, so he crossed the right one over it. “Makes for a rather long walk.”

The two stared at each other, neither of them sure what to say next. Draco hadn’t meant to lash out. But, she didn’t have to speak to him that way. It was as if she still disliked him, after he’d done nothing but be compliant and polite. Hermione Granger had the nerve to sit across from him for an hour once per week and not even realize that he isn’t all that bad. 

At least, he didn’t think he was that bad. Then again, he was sober. When Draco was sober, it was more difficult to psychologically pick himself apart. Despite his hours long dive into his past, Hermione had him feeling incredibly aware of the present moment. In the present moment, Draco wasn’t all that bad. He was just a little lost. 

But, that was the problem with Hermione. She brought him into the here and now; he couldn’t be anything other than what he was each moment that he was in her presence. No amount of mental locks could keep him from falling apart, or blooming, right in front of her. And that was dangerous. It meant that he couldn’t trust himself to maintain control. And when he couldn’t do that…

“I think that’s enough for today.”

Hermione didn’t sound sure, but her words were definitive. Draco stood up from the table, fighting to maintain his composure. 

“Until next week.”

Draco gave Hermione a small nod of his head before turning and leaving. He fought the urge to loosen his tie, knowing that he wasn’t actually choking. Hermione just had a way of making him feel hot and bothered. Unfortunately, that time, he wasn’t hot and bothered in a  _ good _ way. 

When Draco got to the street below, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. If he went right, he could be slipping back to Wizarding London and a potential evening out with Theodore. Draco would leave Blaise at home. He wasn’t interested in a relaxing evening out with the boys--Draco wanted to get so drunk that he wouldn’t be able to apparate home. If he went left, however, he could see what Muggle London had to offer. 

Draco let his eyes wander down the street, watching Muggles pace about with purposeful steps. They threw their heads back in laughter, clutching at their bellies. The first wave of the dinner crowd was taking to the streets, slightly tipsy and stuffed to the brim with good food. They were on the hunt for some fun, perhaps a bar to pour into, or a walk through downtown in the evening. 

He chanced a quick glance back up to the patio. Hermione was gone, but he hadn’t seen her come down the stairs. Draco wasn’t sure why the realization hit him so deeply. He was beginning to feel quite miserable again, right after he’d just gotten himself some kind of stable. He couldn’t go out with Theodore--there was no need to get sloshed. He would treat himself to an evening of anonymity. 

And then, Draco was off. He let himself blend into the crowded street, waiting at crosswalks like Muggles do. He thought the idea of traffic lights was quite ingenious, as he’d always wondered how they manage to make cars work. It seemed to be a lot of chaos with no real purpose.

Rather than apothecaries and stores for broomsticks, Draco found an array of clothing and make-up shops. One of the windows displayed exclusively shoes, none of which Draco found to be appealing. He quickly found a street of exclusively restaurants and pubs, rich with outdoor seating and packed full of drunk Muggles. Happiness and life surrounded Draco from every direction, and he was taken aback by the simplicity of it. 

Draco happened upon a store that sold exclusively cheesecake, and he tought he was going to lose his mind. He ended up purchasing a white chocolate with raspberry cheesecake, quickly trasnfiguring a few sickles into what he needed for the cake. Draco ate it at one of the small tables in front of the shop and was blown away. He wasn’t sure what he liked better, the peppermint tea or the cheesecake. 

On his way back toward Aubaine and the Leaky Cauldron, Draco considered exploring more of Muggle London in the future. He wondered what other surprises and experiences awaited him. Perhaps he’d research the history of London a little bit, educate himself on what the Muggles had gone through to end up with a country run by an elected man, while the king sat off in the palace as little more than a symbolic figurehead. At the very least, Draco needed more of that cheesecake. 

Draco didn’t see the hooded man walking toward him until they were colliding into each other. Draco would have fallen if the man hadn’t grabbed him by the upper arm at the last second. As he was righted, he felt the man slip something into his hand. 

Before he could say anything, the man was disappearing out of his view. Draco’s hand made an instinctive fist around the piece of paper, his chest rising and falling quickly. Draco took a steadying breath and pushed his hair out of his face. What the bloody hell was that about?

The piece of paper was small and folded into a square. On it, he found an address and a vague threat. 

_ 20 New Row, Covent Garden, London _

_ You have five minutes to apparate before the wards will fall. _

_ Come alone. _

Draco shoved the note to the bottom of his left pocket and glanced around the street. None of the Muggles appeared to be looking in his direction. Many were ignoring his section of the block all together. He hadn’t been handed a cryptic note like that since the early parts of the war while he was still in school. Theodore had eventually developed charms for Draco to use to communicate with Snape and other Death Eaters. It was safer than leaving a paper trail. 

The hooded figure was gone, but Draco could still feel eyes on him. He knew that the man was somewhere, maintaining the ward while Draco made up his mind. For a brief moment, he contemplated making a run for it. The Ministry would surely step in and Obliviate any Muggle that happened to see the inevitable fight that would ensue. Draco hadn’t dueled in months, but he was sure his old skills remained. He was quite good under pressure, and when his life was on the line. 

His pocket began to heat up, as if the paper was catching on fire. He quickly found that the paper was simply charmed, and it was giving him a warning. Draco was running out of time. He was too sober to rationalize fighting for his life on a Tuesday evening. He closed his eyes and, gripping the paper tightly in his hand, focused on the address and the traces of magic on the parchment. The ground fell away first, followed by the sky. Draco allowed himself to be sucked off of the street and into space and time themselves. 

When Draco finally stopped swirling, he was standing in front of an art studio. Rather impressive watercolor works hung in the window, and a set of oil paintings rested on easels. The paper grew hot then, and Draco dropped it to the ground. Within moments it had burned itself up, the ash scattering as a breeze filtered down the street. 

Despite the small crowd, no one so much as looked up when Draco entered. More paintings and sculptures decorated the space. A plethora of mediums and art styles were on display, and most of the patrons were gathered around a sculpture near the window. Draco slowly made his way toward the back of the space, almost on instinct. He came across an oil painting sporting an array of muted blues, blacks, and greens. The colors swirled upward around each other and seemed to explode toward the top. Rolling grey clouds decorated the background, while a rich sea of purple took up the bottom of the canvas. 

“Muggles are quite creative, aren’t they?” Came a voice to Draco’s right. For a moment, Draco nearly laughed. He recognized the arrogant lilt and confident tone immediately. “Hello, Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Draco nodded, keeping his eyes on the painting. “Muggles are quite good at a number of things, as I’m beginning to learn.”

“We know,” Potter mirrored Draco, studying the painting with fake scrutiny. “We’ve been watching you.”

Draco winced, replaying every minute that he’d spent with Hermione. So, that was the purpose of their meetings. He wasn’t being rehabilitated, or refocused, he was being watched. Even though he knew that it wasn’t Hermione’s fault, Draco couldn’t help but have the sudden urge to punch something. Damn her. 

“Same old Potter,” Draco scoffed. “Can’t keep his nose out of anyone’s business. But to involve Granger? That’s a new low. She clearly doesn’t want to be part of whatever new conspiracy you’re toting.”

Pottered gave Draco a sidelong glance, his nose crinkling slightly. Potter’s obvious discomfort made Draco want to continue, to push the boundaries. If Potter wanted a fight all he had to do was ask. 

“Hermione is doing her job,” Potter pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was lanky and awkward looking as ever. Draco didn’t understand why women swooned at his feet. “And she has nothing to do with this. In fact, she doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“And why would that be?”

Draco wasn’t sure if he believed Potter or not. Sure, the guy had made sure that Draco didn’t end up in Azkaban, much to the Wizenmagot’s distaste. But, they’d been on opposite ends of a war, and the pair couldn’t be more different from one another. It was the same thing that separated Draco from Hermione. People like them were too righteous, too good, to realize just how flawed they were. People like Draco, on the other hand, knew their flaws and how to compensate for them. 

“We in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have had our eyes on you for a long time,” Potter raised an eyebrow. Draco didn’t know if the smirk was real, or a figment of his imagination. “But, we had to be careful. After all, you’re on probation for war crimes. We had to wait for the proper timing, and had to make sure that you were fit for the opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“You’re exceptional at Occulmency,” Potter began to circle him then, as if surveying him. Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, his right hand latching onto his wand. Just in case. “You’re well-versed in dueling, and have an aptitude for charms. Tell me, how are you with memory charms?”

Draco swallowed past the lump that had begun to form in his throat. 

“Well enough,” he said, not liking that Potter was standing behind him. “I suppose the Occulmency helps with that.”

“We are interested in finding a place for you at the DMLE,” Potter came back into view, stopping directly between Draco and the painting. “I believe you have a few more months to decide. Feel free to send me an owl should your interest be piqued. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a raid to lead. Jensen will put up another ward so that you may apparate home. I hope to hear from you soon.”

Potter was half-way to the door when he stopped and turned slowly on his heel. 

“Oh, before I forget! Hermione got the invitation that your mother sent. If you promise to give this serious consideration, I’ll see to it that she’s there.”

The two eyed each other for what felt like years. When Draco raised his chin Potter mirrored the action, both of them waiting for what was to happen next. They hadn’t gone that far without pulling their wands on each other before. It was unsettling. 

Slowly, Draco nodded. He would give the proposition serious consideration, right after he went home and opened a new bottle of firewhiskey. 

And then, Potter was gone. Draco turned toward the door to see the same hooded figure as before. The hood fell away to expose a young wizard with ashy blond hair and a nasty scar above his lip. Jensen’s expression was impassive, giving nothing away. 

Draco closed his eyes and imagined the soft sheets on his bed, the hardwood of his bedroom, and the smell of wood burning in the fireplace. He nearly fell onto his bed as he landed, only one thought on his mind. 

His mother had invited Hermione to the dinner party. 

As he made his way toward the liquor cabinet, Draco tried to be rational. He should be considering the fact that Harry bloody Potter had basically kidnapped him in Muggle London to offer him a job. Not only was it a job, but a job with the very department that had ordered Draco be tortured by weekly meetings with the most enchanting witch he’d ever laid eyes on. The entire situation was preposterous. 

Draco was very much not in control. And that meant that he sipped straight from the bottle, leaving the glass on the table. He would try and process his emotions the following morning. Perhaps Pansy could come over and talk him off the ledge. She’d tell him what to do, what decisions to make. She’d tell him if he should run away or not to avoid Hermione speaking to him about the party the following Tuesday. 

But, that was for the next morning. Right then, Draco needed to be drunk. He needed to forget that he’d been given a second chance at a future. He needed to pretend as if Hermione Granger wasn’t somewhere out there, probably asleep, dreaming about a world in which Draco didn’t exist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait!! work has been absolutely crazy!
> 
> as always, feel free to find me on tumblr @/draqo-pctter for story updates and other hp related things!! :)


End file.
